The Woes of the Eternally Bored
by FancyFreeThinker101
Summary: Bernard has never had a lover, nor a friend, nor even an acquaintance. Yet this state of affairs may soon change when a persistent young woman enters his life and refuses to leave him alone... Set Post Movie. COMPLETE. Please read and review!
1. The Object of My Immediate Dislike

I disliked her from the moment I laid eyes on her. This wasn't unusual, it was true; I disliked nearly everyone I laid eyes on. But I disliked her particularly. Everything about her was sickening—her hair, always kept out of her way and always that irksome shade of soft auburn, her eyes, large and disgustingly playful, even her mouth, which was too disposed to smile at any given moment. At every turn she annoyed me, annoyed me because she managed to break through the many indifferent walls I'd long ago built, and, what was worse, she did it so easily…

"Good morning!"

I didn't look up from the book I was perusing concerning the ancient civilizations of Mesopotamia, already unimpressed with the speaker. It was _not _a good morning, nor would it ever be.

"The exhibits are that way," I said, pointing down the hall and hoping they went away soon. Typically, I got my wish; the ruffled, rather startled customer would hurry off to escape the tiresome, boorish employee, and I was left to myself. It had always been like this; I was used to being alone. Yet this persistent individual did not move, only stood there before me expectantly, until I at last wrenched myself away from Mesopotamia and, reluctantly, looked up at whoever it was that had made me acknowledge them. The object of my immediate hatred was but a girl—a thing of about 22, who was smiling at me as if it were a wonderful world indeed and we were bosom friends. I stared at her, neither smiling nor blinking, and, bravely, she said:

"You know, it is customary, when someone says goodmorning, to return the greeting."

"Is it?" I deadpanned, not at all mollified by a good deal of reddish hair and big, hazel eyes.

"Yes," she said, blushing now. "Or, such was my impression."

"You were under the wrong impression," I said coolly, and turned away from her, back to my book. Her next reply was somewhat heated—a petulant little thing.

"You're exceedingly unfriendly."

"You're the one heckling a museum curator."

Her flush deepened at my words, and I distinctly saw her eyes flash; maybe if I got her angry enough, she'd flounce off and leave me alone. I decided it was worth a shot.

"I suppose you think I'm aggravating?"

"Right you are."

"And I suppose," as her voice became steadily hotter, "that you want me to leave?"

"Correct again."

"And I suppose it would be just too troublesome for you to tell me your name?"

"Aren't you on a roll."

She was furious by now, and I congratulated myself on a job well done—but suddenly this very irritating female smiled, and her eyes lit up, almost as if I'd given her a tantalizing challenge.

"Well, I'll find it out, then."

"You do that."

"I shall," she said, and there was a hint of obstinacy in her voice—as if she took the whole stupid thing pretty seriously. "I'll be back soon, you wait."

"I'm all a-flutter with anticipation."

She walked on, and I shrugged and buried myself back in my book; I seriously doubted whether I'd ever see that girl again…and what's more, I really didn't care.

"Bernard, you'll be staying late again."

Kate Hemming swept carelessly into the staff room, not even looking at me as she spoke. I jerked my head in an unnecessary nod; it didn't really matter if I agreed or not. It hadn't ever mattered. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she continued:

"The French Revolution exhibit needs to be swept again, and the souvenirs in the gift shop need to be sorted. Work on it."

Again, the nod which she simply assumed was there; without another word, she left, and I sighed. Another night late in the museum. Another night of toast and coffee for dinner. Another night of sheer, unrelieved boredom, only intensified by the heavy silence of my tiny, two-room apartment.

And they said life was beautiful.

11:00 PM. I dragged myself wearily up the narrow, creaking steps to my apartment, holding my breath habitually so as not to inhale the stench of stale coffee and cigarettes. Fumbling with the lock on my door, I mumbled a few choice words under my breath and, not even bothering to turn on the light, fell into bed and then into sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

The girl came again the next day, and this time she was grinning hugely; I turned away from her and hoped she'd take the hint. No such luck.

"Hello, there, Bernard!"

Dammit.

"Ah, so I misjudged you," I said in an utterly toneless voice. "You're not just a pest; you're also an amateur stalker."

"Very funny," she said, breezing right by my wit and holding out one hand—she couldn't honestly expect me to shake it. She'd be disappointed if she did. "No, I'm not a stalker; if you must know, another employee told me. I asked the name of an unsociable man with messy blondish hair and glasses and she knew immediately whom I was talking about. My name is Gwendolyn Sharp."

It was almost amusing to wonder why she thought I cared; I raised an eyebrow.

"Good for you."

Her hand stayed stretched awkwardly in mid air; when I didn't take it, she sighed, as if watching the antics of a stubborn toddler.

"Look, let me teach you something. Usually, when two people meet, they say good morning—we learned that yesterday, remember?—and then they shake hands. It's a very well-known custom all over the world; you should try it."

"I'll pass," I said, shrugging; I refused to shake someone's hand, especially if that someone was an irksome, forward _girl_ who didn't know when to leave someone alone.

"Come on, Bernard," she said, and her sarcasm was gone; now she was trying the openhanded appeal to reason. "Why don't you like me? Why won't you let us be friends?"

"Why indeed," I said, shrugging. "I'm not looking for a friend, sorry to break it to you."

"Well, in life you ought to keep an open mind," she shot back, a little angry that I'd thrown her attempts at comradeship out the window. "You never know when you'll find something unexpected."

"I'll keep that in mind," I told her, tonelessly.

Gwendolyn Sharp took a deep breath and I watched, slightly amused, as she did her best to control herself, and to stifle the irritation most people vented on me quite freely. Well, she did try.

"Bernard, like it or not, I WILL be your friend," she told me, and there was an ominous glint in her eye as if she was pronouncing my death sentence. "So get used to the idea. It WILL happen."

And then she walked off, and I felt a strange tug at my mouth at how aggravated and yet how philanthropic she was—it took a few moments for me to realize it was a smile.


	2. A Persistent Bother

Gwendolyn Sharp may as well have been a bloodhound.

She turned up at the museum nearly every day for the next week and, though our conversations was scarcely this side of civil, and they never lasted longer than half an hour, nonetheless I became used to her irritating presence and came to look at her visits as just another part of my day, unavoidable. To me, the strangest part lay in the fact that she kept returning; typically, after just two or three failed shots at friendship or even cordiality, people threw up their hands and pronounced me a hopeless case. Simply unlovable. Yet every day, right around 1 o'clock, when my doltish colleagues were taking their lunch break and Kate Hemmings was looking for something else I could do until the wee hours of the morning, she arrived, with a smile and a "Hello, Bernard!" which usually went without response. She would sit on the railing as I checked over the exhibits, ignoring my habitual rebukes that visitors were not permitted to sit on said railing, and talk to me as I worked, undeterred by any lack of enthusiasm towards her extended olive branch, never leaving without a smiling "Bye, Bernard, see you tomorrow!" and a friendly wave, as though we were buddies chatting cozily over coffee instead of an antisocial museum curator and a persistent, optimistic, intrinsically stubborn young thing who had mistaken ideas about what could and could not be done. My life was still much the same; I still wore the same thing every day, my apartment was still tiny and dingy and smelt of tobacco, and I still frequently worked late and returned to my quarters spent. Yet Gwendolyn's visits, as annoying n and irksomely cheerful as they may have been, lightened the heavy monotony that constituted my existence, and for this I was, perhaps not grateful, but tolerant…

About two weeks after that first meeting, Gwendolyn, perched on the rail once more and chatting blithely, asked me if I would like to "swing by" (her stupid phrasing, not my own) the nearby coffeehouse with her and have a drink with her; my answer was habitual and immediate.

"No."

"C'mon, Bernard," she coaxed—as if wheedling really worked on me. "It'll be fun; do you have something else to do?"

"No."

"Then why not? Look, I'll treat you!"

"Unfortunately, I am no so financially insecure as to be unable to afford a simple cup of coffee; when that day comes, we'll get as many coffees as you please."

She frowned at my sarcasm and, quite unbothered, said firmly:

"Then I'll just wait until you go for lunch break. It's in about 30 minutes, anyway."

"Stalking is a very unbecoming profession for a lady."

Her cheeks flushed at this one, and her voice was just barely defensive as she retorted:

"I don't stalk you! Is it so unlikely that, after two weeks of forming your acquaintance, I should happen to observe when you take your lunch break?"

"No, of course not, how foolish of me. It's exceedingly normal."

Gwendolyn's eyes flashed, and, with a foreboding smirk, she said slowly:

"Bernard, if you don't shut up, I shall accompany you until you leave to go home, and we both know you practically live here."

I was silent for the next 30 minutes.

As she had threatened, Gwendolyn accompanied me on my trek down the street to the pretentious local coffeehouse, pointedly oblivious to some of the nastier comments I made on the way. Deciding it would be a waste of precious energy to try and get rid of her, I shrugged and ignored her as we entered the shop, approaching the counter. The counter girl knew me by now, at least by appearance; I was a frequent customer.

"The usual," I told her, shoving a five dollar bill across the counter at her.

"Yes, sir," she replied; this was ever the extent of our conversations.

Gwendolyn gave her order, and I sat down at one of the bland, wooden tables, waiting. She sat beside me; I decided not to acknowledge the fact.

"Do you eat anything for lunch?" she asked me, as I wordlessly took my coffee without thanking the girl. She had, by now, come to expect this; we no longer even made eye contact.

"No."

Her eyebrows went up, and a crease appeared on her brow, born of some emotion I couldn't quite place.

"Never? You go all day without eating?"

"I don't see how that's any business of yours," I said, with a shrug. "But obviously I eat; it is a necessity for survival, and as of yet I still breathe."

"You know, subsisting mainly on coffee is considered by modern scientists very unhealthy."

"I don't care," I said, truthfully. The opinion of modern scientists had never troubled me as of yet; in fact, it was people like said modern scientists who considered me socially starved and depressed. Gwendolyn, to her credit, looked as if she might have known I would say that.

"Do you care about anything?"

She caught on quickly.

"No."

"Well, you should," she said, and there was something very much like a sigh in her voice. "Why not?"

I didn't want to tell her why not; she wouldn't understood that caring too often led to hurting.

"Because."

"Well, you should try caring once in a while; it lends spice to life."

I did not deign to reply to something so asinine; jerking one shoulder non commitally, I nodded and focused my full attention on my coffee. Still Miss Sharp continued her indefatigable flow of conversation.

"So tell me, Bernard, what is your favorite topic in history?"

"What do you know of history?" I replied coolly, not at all impressed by her attempts to "be neighbourly".

"Not much," she said candidly. "But I am quite fond of the Presidents, if you wanted to know."

"I didn't," I said, not allowing myself to be surprised or—could it be so?—slightly impressed by female who found interest in what many considered to be musty old men. "So I suppose you consider yourself an executive expert?"

Her cheeks warmed at my dry, mocking tone, and she quickly shook her head.

"No, not at all! I just think they're interesting."

"Sure they're interesting," I said, with no change of expression. "They were symbolic of the United States for a brief period of time. A five year old could have told me they were interesting."

"Well, why don't you quiz me?" she shot back, and I bit back a little smirk at the indignation in her voice. There was something about Gwendolyn Sharp roused and angry that caused me a pang of something very much like amusement.

"Okay, then. Which president served two terms, but not consecutively?"

Her reply was instantaneous, almost without thought.

"Grover Cleveland."

Well. That was too simple a question anyway. Any giddy high school girl could have been able to tell me that. I'd have to try something harder.

"Which president was a bachelor?"

"James Buchanan."

Dammit; she'd gotten that one right, too. Well, we'd see about that.

"Who was Buchanan's famous successor to the Presidency?"

"Lincoln."

Here, I decided to delve deeply into the obscure, as a true test to her knowledge. Not that I really cared; it was simply a means of distracting her from any nosy questions about my family life.

"According to one anecdote, which president was called, by his faithful servant, a 'sicond hand Prisident?'"

But my efforts had been in vain; Gwendolyn Sharp shot me what could only be described as a triumphant smirk and said, with deliberate emphasis:

"Millard Fillmore."

"Very good," I drawled, talking to my cup. "You have mastered the basic trivial knowledge of some of the most famous men in American history. A true scholar."

Her smile hardened, and her eyes, for a moment, looked nearly green; unbidden, the thought came that Gwendolyn wasn't _quite_ as unattractive as all the other faceless femmes in my narrow circle of acquaintance. Nowhere near pretty, of course—I'd never yet seen a girl I'd consider _pretty_—but maybe not so revoltingly uniform as the others of her species.

"Bernard, I don't think you ever answered my question."

Gwendolyn's voice sliced through my disinterested reverie almost rudely; stifling an unreasonable irritation, I replied:

"I don't think you ever asked a question worth answering."

As it happened, this was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back; pushing back her chair, my companion cried:

"You are SUCH an ass!"

Unmoved and unabashed by the curious stares we were starting to gather, I just gazed at her, completely unimpressed. Finally, once she was turning a slow crimson at the realization of just how loud she'd been, I said simply:

"That depends on how one defines the word. Personally, I consider an ass to be, in some cases, one who makes an undesirable scene in a public place."

"Shut up!" she retorted, and, in an effort to seem as if she truly didn't care, tossed her head. "And _I _would consider an ass to be the _cause_ of said public scene."

I simply shrugged, knowing from long experience that this was what irritated people—particularly young women—the most when they were in a temper. Getting up, I tossed the empty Styrofoam cup into the trendy little garbage can and walked out, not bothering or caring to see if she followed. She did, of course, and within a few moments we were standing at the doorway of the museum, and I was hoping half-heartedly that she'd leave—and yet, at the same time, considering the interest her flashing temper and bubbly disposition were adding already to my dull, blank stretch of a life…

"Goodbye, Bernard," she said, smiling again. "Thanks for having me; I had a great time."

The pest acted as if I'd actually invited her along, instead of done everything in my power to prevent her from going. Wryly amused, I moved one shoulder up and down and murmured:

"I'm sure."

And then Gwendolyn began to do something really strange; she started to lean in towards me, and her arms made as if to wrap around my back; startled, I quickly retreated from her grasp and demanded, not quite as indifferently as usual:

"What are you doing?"

Her eyebrows went up, and there was laughter in her eyes—wasn't there always?—as she replied:

"I'm trying to give you a hug, Bernard. You know, those things Mother gave before you toddled off to bed."

Her words had, without even meaning to, touched a nerve; sucking in a quick breath, I turned away from her, as, in my head, something very painful played out, still fresh and sharp…

_I was a very little boy sitting in bed, all alone in the dark, biting my lip as I waited for a tall, familiar figure to pass by…sure enough, she did, and I called out._

"_Mummy!"_

_She came in, and I saw immediately that she was going out somewhere; she was wearing her bright lipstick, the stuff she never wore for Dad. _

"_What, Bernard?"_

"_Mum, I wanna know," I said, staring up at her with solemn eyes. "Do you love me?"_

_She looked at me, her only son, and something very much like contempt curved her mouth; with a negligent shrug, she said simply:_

"_Sure, Bernard. Sure."_

_And then she left, closing the door behind her and leaving me in complete blackness._

Meanwhile Gwendolyn's eyes were wide with alarm, and she was calling my name, asking if I was alright. I clenched my jaw and said, in a strained voice:

"Don't make assumptions about my mother."

Puzzled, she nodded, and, whispering an apology, held out her hand, this time with a tentative air. I stared at it.

"Let's just shake hands, then," she said, with a feeble effort to be nonchalant. "W-we'll get to hugs later."

I made a dry, sardonic sound which intimated that I rather doubted that—and then gingerly took her hand in mine. The contact was surprising; her hand was smaller than mine, and seemed almost fragile. I jerked it up and down awkwardly, and then, as if she were a leper, let go, bringing my now tingling hand back to my side.

"Goodbye, Gwendolyn," I said, turning away and opening the door.

"B-bye, Bernard," she said, rather softly. "See you tomorrow."

"Most probably. It can't be avoided."

She smiled, as if I were kidding, and, with a little wave, walked off—and I was left standing there and wondering why the hell I could still feel her hand in mine.


	3. It Only Gets Worse

3

"Bernard, great news."

I kept my eyes on my book—this one about Napoleon Bonaparte—and came very near to ignoring the existence of Miss Katherine Hemmings as she strode past my lonely seat in the staff lounge, smelling unpleasantly of chemicals. Per usual, she took my willingness to converse for granted, and went on, with her back to me as she made some more coffee:

"You're working late again."

This really wasn't news at all; still buried in the French Revolution, I replied, without missing a beat:

"And you're a desperate alcoholic, Kate, but I don't see how either of these statements are great news."

It was a source of almost vindictive pleasure to hear the coffee slosh in Kate's cup as her hand shook, and then to hear that angry, withdrawn breath—without looking, I knew her cheeks were flushed dull red, and her eyes were snapping in her bony, equine face. Kate was the epitome of everything I considered unattractive in a woman: overconfident, cold, and of almost masculine efficiency. It was a joy—if my life contained such a thing—to enrage her.

"Still bitter and universally hated, I see," she rejoined, rallying quickly. "What would Mother say? I know she was soooo proud of her darling Bernard—wasn't she?"

My jaw locked, and the hands holding the book clenched until the knuckles turned white as paper; she had crossed the line.

Seeing the look on my face and knowing from my lack of response that she was the victor of this round, Kate just smirked, and her eyes lit up with delight from her cruelty.

"You'll never win, Bernard," she told me casually, her glossy black pumps clacking as she sauntered off. "Get used to it—you're a loser."

I waited until she was safely out of the room and a good ways down the hall until I got up and walked quickly towards the bathroom.

Gwendolyn found me as I made my way back, still very pale and stiff and with my jaw still tight with residual rage. Immediately, there came again that odd expression I couldn't quite place.

"Bernard! Hey, are you alright?"

"Superlative," I said, through my teeth. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

But she clamped a hand on my arm and effectively prevented me from going anywhere; I was startled by the warmth of her small hand as it grasped me through my coat sleeve. I'd almost forgotten the sensation of human contact.

"Not on your life, Bernard. What's going on?"

"As it happens, many things are 'going on' in this world right as we speak, yet I don't see you demanding to know of those."

Instead of replying, she lifted a hand and, with her fingertips, quickly touched my cheek; I recoiled in instantaneous shock.

"What do you think you're doing?"

But the stubborn Gwendolyn Sharp only stuck out her chin and replied, quite unabashed:

"You're white as a sheet. I was just making sure your body temperature was normal."

"Your concern is appreciated," I said dryly, alarmed by the thought of someone—anyone—touching me. "Now, if you'll kindly step aside—some of us have work to do."

Catching the implications behind my words, Gwendolyn flushed and, momentarily distracted from my wellbeing, said heatedly:

"I have a job, you know! I work from 6-11 PM at the bookstore down the road. That's why I never get here until lunch time."

"Fascinating," I drawled, a little nastily. "While that knowledge will assuredly help me sleep tonight, I do need to return to my work. Move."

But she had recalled her initial purpose, and stubbornly refused to budge; aggravated, I pressed my lips tightly together and struggled to keep my expression inscrutable. If she ever forced me to give vent to some kind of emotion, I would have lost the battle I'd won steadily for so many years…

"Look," she said, and her voice teetered on the edge of sternness. "I shan't leave until you tell me what's the problem. And I know you aren't _that_ frightfully fond of my company."

My patience, already taut and thin from my unsavory encounters with Kate Hemmings, snapped; in a voice much sharper than I usually allowed myself to be, I retorted:

"Why must you constantly meddle in affairs of no one's concern?"

I had done it; I had silenced her. For a few brief, blessed moments she just stood there, mouth open and eyes wide as she took it all in—but my respite was fleeting indeed, for within just a few seconds she had recovered herself and her faculties, and was glaring at me, that pinkish mouth still somewhat open.

"Are you daft?" she demanded, shaking her head.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Now, see here, Bernard—Bernard—"

The roiling flow of her gathering lecture was cut almost pathetically short by the necessity to stop and search for my last name; almost pitying her, I murmured flatly:

"Grahame."

"Thank you," she said, a tad snippily. "Now see here, Bernard Grahame, don't you _dare_ go around thinking that no one cares about you—because frankly, that mentality is insufferable. But also because that's just not true."

"How inspiring."

"Oh, stop being such a damn—such a damn—such an Eyore! Look, I know I'm right, because **I **am concerned for your welfare, which thus renders the phrase 'nobody' null and void!"

I wasn't precisely sure how to respond to that; the words were new, strange. She was concerned for my welfare. How strange. Abruptly, it hit me—that odd expression in her eyes was _anxiety._ Gwendolyn Sharp worried about me. The thought did something odd to my insides; I felt, for a minute, almost as if I were glowing.

And, for the first time in our strange and rather amusing acquaintanceship, I made no snarky reply, no bitingly indifferent retort—I only looked at the nagging Miss Sharp and, nodding briefly, left to continue my duties.

It was well past midnight that night when I got home and collapsed into bed.

It was four o'clock in the morning when someone knocked on the peeling, shabby door; I shut my eyes tightly and hoped against hope that they would leave, that it wasn't who I thought it was…

"Mr. Bernard, sir?"

It was. Sighing, I resolutely opened my eyes, squinting at the dirty ceiling and reaching out automatically for my glasses…

"Mr. Bernard, sir? It's cold outside."

"It's colder in here," I said dryly, slipping on the aforementioned specs and opening the door reluctantly. The person on the other side of the door was a small, thin, rather hunched little man with a thin black mustache and a scuffed, omnipresent baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He was pushing one of those large, squarish, wheeled contraptions singular to cleaning people and shivered in his patched windbreaker. This was Elmer, the man whom I periodically paid as little money as I could get away with to, in a decent sense of the word, clean my apartment. This was not out of negligence on my part, but a simple unwillingness to venture into some of the grimier crevices of the shabby hovel I called a dwelling…

"Mr. Bernard, sir," he said, nodding as he rolled his way through the doorway and began immediately to sweep.

I was too sleepy to think of anything particularly biting—so, in my most lifeless voice, I simply asked:

"Elmer, why are you standing before me at four in the morning? I seem to have labored under the delusion all these years that you come at 6:30."

"Family troubles, Mr. Bernard, sir," he began—before recalling that "Mr. Bernard, sir" didn't really care. Being a good man, one who typically learned from his mistakes, he shut his mouth tightly and went back to shoving the broom across the floor. Knowing that he'd soon make my bed, I took a seat in the only chair I had (a hard, wooden, quite uncomfortable chair) and wondered dully if the rest of the day would be like this morning.

**Hello! If anyone's reading this, A PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS! PLEASE REVIEW! IT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE GUSHING, JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK, I JUST CAN'T TAKE THE SILENCE!**


	4. Chapter 4

3

"Bernard?"

There was someone far away calling my name, and someone's fingers toying with my hair—I frowned. Nobody ever touched me, much less caressed my hair. Again, the voice came—a soft, female voice, much gentler than any ever addressed to me…

"Bernard? C'mon, wake up. What will your boss say?"

I let out a deep, slow breath, and, opening my eyes, squinted up at—

"Miss Sharp. How strangely disturbing."

For a moment, her cheeks burned, and she was flustered, self-conscious; before I could smirk and forget the entire thing, however, an almost mischievous smile curved her mouth, and she raised an eyebrow.

"You should be thanking me, Bernard. I saved your ass from being fired. Besides, you seemed to rather enjoy yourself."

She was a liar. I hadn't enjoyed _that_ at all…had I? No, of course I hadn't…I had no desire for human contact, no wanting to be even anywhere _near_ anyone, particularly the irksome Gwendolyn Sharp.

"Pray, how did you wander to such a mistaken conclusion?" I retorted, turning away and pretending to inspect an exhibit, even as a strange, alarmingly warm feeling snaked its way up my neck. Gwendolyn's smirk just widened.

"Well, Bernard you seemed rather…open to the whole thing, if you want to know the truth. You practically purred, really."

The warm feeling exploded into a blush of sheer mortification as I struggled to remain composed; the girl was obviously enjoying her absurd joke. There was no reason why I should let it affect _me_.

"Miss Sharp, lying, like stalking, is not becoming. Nor is touching someone without their explicit consent."

Again, the color rose in her face, making little pink patches on her cheeks…but quickly she rallied from my rudeness, and shook her head, looking almost condescending.

"Well, it seemed to me that you _gave_ me your explicit consent," she shot back, even as she blushed. "Come on, now, enough quibbling. What on earth did you do last night that deprived you of sleep?"

Annoyed and irritated at how she seemed to repeatedly force me to manifest the emotions I'd been sternly repressing, I shrugged in my most disdainful manner and murmured:

"When you find a way to clean a museum and sleep simultaneously, Miss Sharp, I'll take your question into account. Until then, I consider it unworthy of reply."

Her brows shot up, and that annoyingly expressive mouth fell open; with wide, childlike eyes she said softly:

"Bernard…were you cleaning the museum…_all night_?"

"That depends on one's definition of night. Certainly a good portion of it."

She was too flabbergasted to take note of my sarcasm; blinking, she stuttered:

"But—why?"

"Well, Miss Sharp, it's a well-known custom—perhaps you've heard of it; you claim to be so well-versed in them—when one's superior commands one to do something, to _do_ it, without questioning why. I find it highly conducive to my state of continued employment."

Again, I'd irritated her, yet (dammit) not enough to have her forget the reason she'd asked her nosy question in the first place; with a little glint in her eyes, she continued:

"You mean your boss _makes_ you stay here late? Does it happen often?"

I did not see the point of answering that last question; it would only provoke more unsolicited commiseration. And yet, provoked or not, more came.

"But that's awful! Why don't you quit? That's entirely unfair!"

Of course it was; everything was unfair. The child acted as if the injustice of existence was a novelty, something she'd never stumbled across before now. I rolled my eyes.

"Well, Miss Sharp, since life is 100 percent fair the rest of the time, I decided I'd let it slide just this once."

Miraculously, my nastiness served its purpose; momentarily distracted, she cried:

"Oh, stop calling me Miss Sharp! You sound like my teacher! My name is Gwendolyn!"

"I'm aware."

"Then why don't you use it? I don't go about calling you 'Mr. Grahame' like we're in the bloody '40's; call me Gwendolyn—or better yet, Gwen. Saves syllables that way."

"While the conservation of syllables is a primary concern," I deadpanned, as I inwardly acknowledged how amusing she was when she was irked. "I believe, if I must use your first name, I'll use your proper first name. Nicknames are an atrocity."

"It's a sign of closeness," she countered. "Come now, you never had nicknames for any of your friends?"

I almost laughed bitterly in her all-too-innocent face; friends? Surely she jested.

"I never had any to nickname."

"You never had any friends?" she echoed, as if the thought were truly incomprehensible. "Never?"

"I grow weary of repeating myself, Sharp."

"It's Gwen, dammit! And well, Bernard, you have one now; I'm your friend, remember?"

The statement rather took me aback; I stared at her for a moment, processing all of this. My friend. This girl wanted to be my friend.

How strange.

"Well," I said dryly, "I suppose beggars can't be choosers."

In that infuriating way of hers, Gwendolyn took my caustic words to be almost complimentary, a confirmation of how chummy she pretended we were.

"See?" she said, beaming. "Now was that so awful?"

And then, just to prove to me what a swell thing friendship was, she leant in and, before I could back away and utter a scathing remark, wrapped her arms around my waist, laying her head on my chest.

I stiffened at once, and opened my mouth to say something—but words failed me, and, involuntarily, my hands, suspended awkwardly in mid air, were lowering, resting on her back. My posture loosened, and for one single, suspended moment I was the nearest to happy that I had ever been—and then she slowly pulled away, as I gathered the wasted shreds of my snarkiness.

"What the hell was that?"

"That there," she said, flushed but smiling determinedly, "was a hug. A proper hug, and one which you sorely need. And, if you ever piss me off, I'll give you another one without any hesitation, in front of all the people here. Unless, of course," with an impish glance in my direction, "you ask for one as a favor."

"I'm sure I'll be begging for another soon enough; how perspicacious of you to deduce how I secretly adored it."

The girl refused to be put out by my weary acidity; glowing as if she'd proven a very good point, she simply smiled in a way that was a good deal too knowing for my tastes and replied:

"You hugged me back."

Even sarcasm failed me for a moment; instinctively, I retorted:

"I did no such thing."

"You did. Wallow in denial if you like, but you most certainly hugged me back."

"Think what you like," I said simply, shrugging and walking away. "Women are so willfully self-deceptive sometimes."

"And Bernards are so stubbornly cold and heartless sometimes."

There was an aggravating twitching sensation at my mouth, which I did my best to shove down; I was not about to let her think she had amused me.

Yet I had a sinking suspicion that she had, and, what was worse, she knew it.

For the rest of the day I could not shake the peculiar sensation that Gwendolyn still had her arms around me; irritated and wanting to forget the entire, absurd experience, I went home that day at a reasonable hour for once, and buried myself in a book concerning the psychological problems of Hitler.

Yet the feeling persisted, and after a good hour I abandoned the possible, deep rooted self-loathing of Adolf Hitler and tried to reason with myself.

It was merely the novelty of the whole thing; after all, I had not been hugged—or, perhaps, assaulted—for a long time, not since I was perhaps three. And even then the embrace had been half-hearted, almost grudging, as if the whole thing were purely perfunctory. Gwendolyn Sharp's unexplainable hug had been my first in many years—and the first I'd ever received that had feeling behind it. It was maddening that the feeling lingered, that I hadn't completely forgotten about it as soon as we'd broken apart.

Scowling, I dragged myself over to the sink and, rolling up my sleeves, doused my arms in the frigid water (I had no hot water), determined to wash away the unfamiliar sensations there.

And I was, for the first time in years, confused and only seemingly apathetic when it didn't work.


	5. Chapter 5

"—And so we've come to the dramatic climax of our leader, Megamind's, relationship with Miss Roxanne Ritchi! Miss Ritchi says the wedding will take place in just a month, and adds that she and Megamind have kept the engagement a secret until now because they want to keep a low profile…"

I switched off the television and snorted. The real me (not the absurd use of my body by Megamind) knew Roxanne Ritchi well enough to safely say she was never interested in keeping a low profile; she was one of those women who never got over being a reporter. And however much the repulsively adoring Megamind talked about how different she was from other women, to me she seemed pretty commonplace—a chipper, stubborn thing who used people (such as myself) when it suited her, and, when she had no use for them, left them on the roadside; now that she had her precious blue despot, the trendy reporter seemed to have forgotten my name. Not that I was particularly surprised; it was a common thing for people to forget my existence when they no longer had use for me. My mother had done it all the time.

A knock at the door interrupted my indifferent musings; not caring who it was, I shrugged and opened it, only to see Elmer, that omnipresent baseball cap pulled over his eyes and his hands in his pockets.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Bernard, sir," began the cleaning man, wringing his hands nervously. "I wouldn't typically bother you on a Sunday, sir—but you forgot to pay me last time I was here, Mr. Bernard, sir."

He was right; I'd forgotten all about his damned paycheck. Without a word, I dug a wrinkled ten dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to him; there was, on his end, a timid silence.

"Mr. Bernard, sir? This is a ten."

I didn't reply. Hesitantly, he went on:

"M-my pay is 20 dollars a week, sir."

"I don't have twenty dollars," I told him, not breaking eye contact and watching as he squirmed uncomfortably.

"Oh," he said, nodding quickly. "So—you'll pay me ten dollars next time?"

"That would be the plan. Unless you'd like me to cut your pay in half."

He tittered nervously, then realized I wasn't trying to be funny—whereupon he stopped at once.

"That's fine, Mr. Bernard, sir. Thank you, sir."

I nodded shortly, and, without so much as a farewell, shut the door.

That night, I decided to spend my one day off (I worked Monday-Saturday) as close to pleasurably as possible; thus, I decided to visit the bookstore. I managed to make it into the History section before I recalled who had a shift there.

"Bernard! Oi! Hello!"

I stiffened and shut my eyes, hoping, praying I was mistaken…yet, when I opened them, there she was, clad in one of those ugly work uniforms and grinning at me like my visit had brightened her day. God.

"Hello, Gwendolyn."

"You came to visit me, did you?" she said lightly, even as a smirk played at her mouth at the unlikeliness of the possibility.

"Hardly. Had I known you were here, I would have deferred my trip to tomorrow morning."

"Oh, don't be so sour," she said lightly, and, to my extraordinary consternation, slipped an arm around my waist. "I enjoy your company; don't you enjoy mine?"

I extricated myself from her grasp (the foreign feel of her arm around me burned like a brand through my turtleneck) and stepped away, my eyebrows lifting.

"Nobody enjoys my company. And I enjoy no one else's company. It's simply a rule. And please don't touch me."  
She frowned, and I could see that unaccountable, yet genuine concern in her eyes; it seemed to come more and more frequently.

"You ought to be touched, Bernard. It'll be good for you. Look, perhaps I was a bit forward; let's start simple. Shake my hand."

"No."

"Yes. Bernard, please shake my hand. It doesn't have to be extravagant, just shake it."

I could see I wouldn't be able to avoid her; deciding to get the whole stupid thing over with as quickly as possible, I took her hand very gingerly in mine and jerked it up and down just once before letting go. Gwendolyn pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"Hmm, well, it's a start. We'll work our way up from there. But you really should get used to me touching you; I'm rather a demonstrative person. And I'll hug you whether you like it or not."

"I believe there's a name for people who touch others without that person's consent. The last time I checked, it was called being a sex offender."

My arrow had missed its mark; the exasperating thing laughed, as if I'd been kidding. Women were unbelievable sometimes.

"Very funny. I'm not trying to rape you, Bernard," as her cheeks began to glow faintly "I'm just trying to inititate you into the world of Everyday Human Contact. You'll be a much happier person, I promise."

I doubted that somehow; I didn't want to touch people, and I had no faith in it making me happy.

"I'll be a much happier person when I get paid again, Gwendolyn. Human contact is entirely out of the equation."

I'd said too much; with that damned, inquisitive look on her face, she cocked her head and asked the obvious question.

"Why's that? What's wrong?"

Dammit.

"Nothing," I said, quickly turning my gaze to the rows of glossy books. "Everything's dandy."

"I don't believe you," she said simply. "C'mon, please tell me; is there something I can do?"

"Perhaps there is; do you happen to have a gun anywhere?"

Gwendolyn Sharp did not find this particularly amusing.

"Not funny; you're worrying me, Bernard. Please just tell me. Are you short on money? Do you need some grocery cash or something?"

Oh, for God's sake; already her mind was conjuring dramatic images of my slow and gnawing starvation. I sighed; I might as well shut her up and tell her.

"No, not that it's any business of yours. I happen to owe my cleaning man ten dollars, which I hope to acquire via some extra work. Now go employ yourself and leave me alone."

But Gwendolyn just smiled, a look of enormous relief beginning to glow in her eyes. It was as if she was expecting an Oliver Twist story.

"Oh, is that all! Here; take this and don't you dare work extra at that museum. They've already got you doing far too much as it is."

In her hand was a crumpled and folded ten dollar bill; I blinked.

"Your charity is appreciated, I'm sure, but I am capable of making my own money."

Her eyes flashed, and she scowled; one nearly expected her to stamp her foot.

"Dammit, it isn't charity! Friendly loans are not charity! Now take it, before I follow you home and shove it under the door."

"That's not a disturbing image."

"It'll get a lot more so if you don't accept my ten; besides, it's common sense, you need it more than I do."

For a moment, I just stood there, and looked at her, the stubborn, flushed Miss Sharp, with that absurd bill in her hand and the scornful visage of Alexander Hamilton staring up at me, and then, slowly, I gave in. It just wasn't worth the energy; let her waste her money if she liked.

When I took it, she beamed, all traces of anger disappearing at once. Volatile thing.

"There, see? Very nice; maybe one day we'll have progressed to where you say 'thank you'."

But any reproof in her words was entirely counterbalanced by the sheer, completely ridiculous pleasure in her eyes at having, as she perceived it, done a good deed. I said nothing; absently, she glanced at the clock, and then started.

"Good Lord! I've got to run; my ten minute break ended 5 minutes ago. See you later, Bernard, and don't work too late!"

I couldn't promise anything of the kind, so I shrugged and, without an adieu, walked away to at last enjoy my solitude, the silence I'd been craving all week.

Yet somehow, when I at last obtained it, it wasn't as sweet as I had thought it would be.


	6. Chapter 6

She came to visit me the next week—as if I had not suffered a whole 7 days' worth of her over-cheery company and unpredictable temper. Yet there she was, on my doorstep just as I was about to have my perhaps dozenth cup of coffee for the day, grinning and saying she wanted to come and keep me company. I started to close the door.

"I prefer solitude."

"I know, Mr. Badger, but we can't always have what we prefer," she said, and came inside without so much as a hello. Resigning myself to my fate, I shrugged and, picking up that book on the mind of Hitler, began to read. I would not in any way make her feel welcome.

I should have known such subtleties were lost on people like Gwendolyn Sharp.

"Bernard?"

I didn't look up from the book, nor did I deign to reply to her undoubtedly absurd question; she tried again.

"Bernard?"

Oh, for God's sake; if I didn't stop her now she'd never leave.

"What?"

"Why are you so determined not to like people?"

For a moment, I was actually stunned; this had not been what I expected to come out of Gwendolyn's mouth. Burrowing deeper into my book, I deadpanned:

"Because they are determined not to like me. It's mutual."

Yet even my caustic flippancy betrayed me, somehow; she sucked in a soft, startled breath, as if she'd made a superb discovery, and said:

"Wh-what makes you think people are determined not to like you?"

Oh, the naivete of women.

"It's just a hunch," I said dryly, wanting to end this ridiculous, dead-end conversation as soon as possible. But, typical of her nature, she kept at it.

"Bernard, be serious—that is, take this seriously. Who's determined not to like you?"

Without warning, a recollection (one of the many I'd been repressing faithfully for years) hit me…

"_Look, Clara, he's just not normal—and I'm his mother, I should know. There's something not right with this kid; he's been nothing but disappointment since he was born. Guess he'll be like that till he dies."_

And then another:

"_Mrs. Elderidge, I don't want to sit by Bernard."_

"_Why not, Sylvia?"_

"_He's weird. He never talks to anyone. Annika says nobody likes him…"_

And then a series of fragments, swirling about in rapid succession:

"_Somebody told me he's mental…like one of those children in a horror movie…"_

"_The only boy going alone to prom…"_

"_Does his work well, maybe, but strange…loathsome, really…"_

"_I heard he's one of those asexual people…"_

I swallowed back the years of pain, the slowly piling bitterness that churned within me. Who, indeed.

"The world, Gwendolyn; I told you, ours is a mutual hatred. Now, if you're finished playing psychiatrist, I'd like to return to my book."

But of course, such a thing was impossible; passing over my sarcasm, she fired off her next question.

"Bernard, were you ever in love?"

This rather surprised me; blinking for just a moment, I barely gathered myself enough to mumble:

"I don't love."

"But you do! You must have, at some point or another!" cried Gwendolyn, determined to find a spark of humanity within me. She'd give up on that soon enough—though I was starting to wonder if the Sharp girl gave up on anything.

What was worse, she was right—somewhat.

It hadn't been love; I was old enough to know that now. It had only been a silly, mortifying crush—but that hadn't stopped it from hurting, all those years ago…

Before I could stop myself, I retorted:

"A crush is hardly love, Sharp."

Dammit! I was almost angry with myself—and almost angry with her as well, for wrangling these vile, pushed-down truths out of me.

Gwendolyn's eyes widened considerably, as if in shock that she'd been rather right, and her mouth fell open—but only for a moment. Then it vanished to be replaced by a gleeful smirk.

"I knew it! I _knew_ you were human! Huzzah! So, who was this lady?"

"Minding one's business is a virtue, Gwendolyn."

"I've never been overly virtuous, Bernard, and I don't intend to start now. Now, tell me, please," immediately adopting a much gentler tone which was, truth be told, somewhat disarming.

Refusing to be disarmed, I simply raised an eyebrow and replied succinctly:

"No."

"Oh, come now! It'll be good to tell someone about it! I-I guess I'm being nosy," blushing and looking, at last, faintly abashed, "so I won't force you, but I do think it'll be good to let it out. Catharsis, and all that. Now, _please_?"

As she uttered the last word, she, without any warning whatsoever, laid a hand on top of my own (which was minding its own business in my lap) and, with her thumb, gently stroked the back, entirely unaware of any impropriety on her part, or even that she was doing it.

I was startled by the peculiar, quite alarming soaring feeling within me, and entirely bewildered by the way my heart thumped in my chest, as if shocked.

There was also a disturbing urge within me to close my eyes and lean back into the stiff, shabby sofa, and just…_enjoy_ it…

I shook myself and tried to gather my thoughts. This was ridiculous; I didn't enjoy anything, particularly the absurd caresses of Gwendolyn Sharp. She was a nuisance, and a pushy, temperamental, nosy bother…and the closest thing I'd allow to a friend. Dear God.

"H-her name was Abigail," I said, appalled at how very…un-apathetic I sounded. "It was a high school abomination, culminating in—" (she gently caressed the underside of my wrist and for some ungodly reason I swallowed) "mutual indifference. Now—if you are done…"

At last, she withdrew her hand, and I restrained an enormous sigh of relief, even as something that felt dangerously like disappointment tugged at my chest. Her eyes went over my face, and she grinned.

"You're blushing."

She was but too right; there was a heat rising into my face which had been absent for many years…and, what's more, I had no idea what had triggered it…confused and alarmed by so many foreign sensations, all in such rapid succession, it took all of my presence of mind to simply fix her with my coolest, most indifferent stare, willing the unwanted color to leave me. Thankfully, it did, though more slowly than I would have liked…

"So, the girl—Abigail—did she…return your feelings?"

Again, I felt no obligation to answer such a ridiculous question; let her figure it out for herself.

And, within a moment, she did; instantly her eyes became compassionate.

"Oh…Bernard…"

I recoiled from her pity; I hated the knowledge that people felt sorry for me. Lucky for me, such feelings never lasted long before becoming disgust, or at least loathing. In my driest voice, I said tonelessly:

"Oh. Miss Sharp."

"Gwendolyn," she corrected, almost habitually. "And you've never loved anyone since then?"

"Love is an illusion, Gwendolyn. It is also one of the sickest forms of masochism."

She just shook her head, and once again her voice was soft and very sincere.

"Love," she told me earnestly, "is wonderful. And very necessary."

Again, the arching of one brow was all that was needed to convey my eloquent disdain.

"I'm sure."

"Oh, don't try and snark your way out of it, Bernard. You know it is."

"Sharp, has it ever occurred to you that your idyllic beliefs are simply the product of your retention of a willful naiveté?"

Typically, this would have either angered her, or confused her, or—oh, happy day—perhaps elicited a silence as she thought over what I'd said. But now Gwendolyn had a different approach. Smirking just a little, she simply fixed me with a sunshiny grin and said:

"You're cute when you blush."

Whatever I had been expecting, it was not that. My mouth opened, to make the standard cutting retort—but, somehow, nothing came out. For a few moments, I actually gaped at her, that damnable heat returning and surging all up my neck and cheeks as I scrambled about for something—anything to say. Nothing came.

_Touché, Miss Sharp._

The moment she left, I scrubbed furiously at myself with the coldest water I could procure.


	7. Chapter 7

Miss Gwendolyn Sharp grew to be, over the next week or so, only more aggravating; she continued to force her unwanted and bewildering presence upon me daily, acting as if I adored her tiresome company and seemingly oblivious to my many, pointed remarks about forward chits who foisted themselves upon men who had no use for them. At last, I decided something must be done; my reputation was fast crumbling around my ears as a heartless, unapproachable gremlin, and that was one thing I needed at all costs to preserve. In fact, the more I thought over it, the more evident it seemed that this damnable Sharp hussy was fast gaining a sort of ascendancy over me. Thus, I decided to take revenge upon Gwendolyn Sharp, and give her, as the cliché went, a taste of her own medicine.

I, Bernard Grahame, would, over the next few days, utterly shock and disarm the smirking Gwendolyn Sharp.

"Hello, Bernard!"

I didn't bother to look up, or move, or even blink; I was past such shows of vulnerability with Gwendolyn Sharp.

"Gwendolyn," I said, looking over a few exhibits, scrutinizing the brassy rails for sticky fingerprints. How I despised children. She perched, per usual, on said rail, and, thin pale legs swinging almost childishly, began to chat.

"So, how have you been, Bernard?"

"Wonderful," I deadpanned, too disdainful of such an inane inquiry to even consider answering it honestly. "Everything's coming up roses."

"Yes, I figured as much," she said, rolling her large greenish eyes. "Did anyone ever tell you you were hard to talk to, Bernard?"

I shrugged.

"Did anyone ever tell you, Gwendolyn, that you are an incorrigible flirt?"

I was, admittedly, a little proud of the color that spread across her cheeks, almost up to her hairline; it was rare that I scored such a victory these days.

"I-I am not flirting with you!" she sputtered, mouth falling open.

"Of course not," I murmured, repressing a smirk at the tell-tale signs of mortification in her face, her tone. Oh, yes, I had definitely found a chink in Sharp's armor.

"I'm not!" she insisted—perhaps a tad defensively. "I-I'm just trying to give you some normal human companionship!"

"I wasn't aware that caresses and frequent embraces were part of 'normal human companionship', Gwendolyn," I said, watching from the corner of my eye as she flushed more deeply than ever, and tossed her head.

This was, in a way, almost amusing.

"Shut up!" she cried, and I knew I was gaining a victory; when Gwendolyn was reduced to the primitive "shut up" she was indeed beyond retort.

"You blush like a schoolgirl, Miss Sharp," I said coolly, still struggling not to smirk. "How touching."

Abruptly she underwent one of her absurd mood changes; from the dismayed, pink-cheeked schoolgirl she became the infuriated spitfire; scarlet with sudden anger, she nearly shouted:

"Bernard, just shut up, alright? Just—go away!"

"I work here," I said, raising an eyebrow. "Thus, I am unable to comply."

She, for once, said nothing—only turned away and walked quickly off, and I immediately saw her hands go to her forehead, covering her face. For a moment, I was puzzled; she seemed dismayed, almost horrified, as if something had gone very wrong. ..but, shrugging, I recalled that I didn't particularly care, and went back to work, somewhat puzzled.

Victories over Gwendolyn Sharp were confusing.

"Bernard, when do I wish you joy?"

I sighed in pure irritation as I buried myself deeper into yet another book; conversations—or, at times, spars-with Kate Hemmings were no reason to abandon an anthology of Greek philosophers. Seeing that I didn't mean to reply, and discontented with mere contempt on the part of her adversary, she prodded a little further.

"C'mon, Bernard; when do you plan to pop the question?"

Still, I gave no reply; if she was truly going in the direction I thought she was going in, then Katherine Hemmings had truly lost her touch.

Deciding more pointed arrows were needed, Kate tried once more.

"Well, then, if you haven't popped the question, have you at least prepared her for a honeymoon night of reading history books?"

I concentrated solely on turning the page, and moving my eyes along the lines…hits at my sexual inexperience in any and all respects had long ago lost their sting. I'd been hearing it since middle school; Kate Hemmings was saying nothing original.

"Kate, why are you still here? The brandy's at home."

I heard her teeth clench, and couldn't help but allow the long-overdue smirk to creep onto my face; first Gwendolyn, now Kate. It was rare that I got on such a roll.

"Go rot in hell, Bernard."

Again, I turned the page, taking a few moments to finish the paragraph before murmuring, rather absently:

"Rotting as we speak."

"Oh, my God! Bernard? Is that you?"

I didn't bother to look up; already I knew who it was. Nobody else wore heels that absurd or had such a dreadful, news-girl-perky voice. Deciding one irritating female must be very similar to another, I did just as I had done when I had first met Gwendolyn and murmured:

"The exhibits are that way."

Roxanne Ritchi was not so impulsive and blunt as Gwendolyn Sharp; laughing uncertainly, she said, in a determinedly friendly voice:

"Still the same Bernard, I see."

I said nothing; it would be, I could tell, much easier to banish Roxanne. She was, for one thing, much less interested in keeping my company. All it would take was a little silence.

Sure enough, she laughed again, and I could feel the awkward heat on her cheeks; merciless, I read over some paperwork concerning a potential new exhibit and allowed the silence to drag on. Roxanne Ritchi might think she was Metro City's darling, but to me she was simply an aggravating, nosy reporter.

"Well, er, how have you been?" she said, doggedly keeping the pitiful, extremely one-sided conversation going. "Since er—you were er…un-dehydrated, I mean."

"Dandy," I said, rolling my eyes. And, as it was high time for me to take my lunch break, I simply turned and walked away, leaving Miss Ritchi and her stilted, desperately cordial conversation behind.

The next day, Gwendolyn returned, though somewhat less cheerful. She seemed, in fact, somewhat daunted, as if preparing to face a rather troublesome obstacle.

"Hello, Bernard," she said, smiling not quite so brightly as usual.

I said nothing; surely she no longer expected a reply.

"How are you?" she asked, as she always did. In keeping with the norm, I said, with an air of utter disinterest:

"Fine. Are you still unreasonably angry?"

She flushed, as I had thought she would, and said, with rather embarrassed defiance:

"Do you care?"

"No."

"I thought not," she said, and she looked, for a moment, faintly unhappy. "But, as for your question, no, I-I'm quite over my little…temper spell. I'm touched that you inquired, however," with a touch of her usual impudence. I shrugged, determined to be victorious in the often senseless battle that was conversation with Gwendolyn.

"I heard Roxanne Ritchi came by today," she said, in a strange voice. Wondering why she would possibly care, and praying she wasn't one of Ritchi's insufferable followers, I murmured:

"Briefly."

This seemed to irritate her, to a certain degree; smiling almost forcedly, she continued:

"Did you talk to her?"

Another shrug.

"Briefly."

"Oh," she said, biting at her lip as she spoke. "She's—she's very pretty."

Utterly in the dark as to why she was dragging out this dead-end topic, I raised an eyebrow and drawled:

"She smells fake."

Abruptly, her previous, inexplicable unhappiness vanished, and she laughed, seeming once more in her element.

"How on earth do you know how she smells?"

"Perfume is a thing both potent and revolting," I said, grimacing slightly at the memory. I had always disliked perfume; it reminded me invariably of my mother, who seemed at times to bathe in the stuff.

"I didn't know Miss Ritchi's appearance and scent was such a matter of concern to you, Gwendolyn," I said, after a moment. Sharp, who'd been smiling to herself for no discernible reason, abruptly flushed again, and did her best to rally the attack.

"It's not! I was simply wondering whether you were human enough to find _any_ woman attractive. I guess I should have known such optimism was absurd."

"I'm glad you're beginning to learn from your mistakes."

She leapt off of the rail at this, a high color in her cheeks and her eyes unusually bright—even for someone as animated as Gwendolyn Sharp. I looked at her for a moment, surprised by the thought, again unbidden, that the Sharp girl was…something. In some lights, she was almost attractive. Almost.

Gwendolyn threw up her hands, exasperated; her temper was exceedingly capricious today.

"You're impossible!" she said, frustrated—and then, pausing for a few moments to look at me, the impossible female suddenly smiled, and, before I could retreat, leant in and—kissed my cheek. Stunned, I stood there, my unfortunate cheek ablaze and my head spinning, unable to formulate any thought whatsoever. It was abruptly very, very hot in the museum.

The—the girl, that Sharp, seemed, for once, properly abashed, and, sneaking a look at me, said, with a confidence that was somewhat put on:

"There. You're impossible, and infuriating, and horribly unfriendly, but I like you anyway."

And quickly, before I could so much as process her words, she turned on her heel and scampered off. I, left standing there dazed and on fire, with one hand stupidly touching my cheek, wondered whether disarming Gwendolyn was always this baffling.

**Hello, and thanks to everyone for their wonderful reviews! You fellas have made my day! I hope you enjoy it, and let me know what you think!**


	8. Chapter 8

4

"_Bernard?"_

_I grimaced and curled deeper into the bed, not wanting to open my eyes. Whoever it was,they could wait at least an hour…_

_The voice persisted, and, in the back of my mind, I thought it sounded familiar._

"_Bernard? Bernard, wake up."_

_Somebody's fingers toyed gently with my hair; vaguely, this stirred a faint recognition, and I frowned sleepily. No. No...it couldn't be…_

"_C'mon, wake up. Please?"_

_Reluctantly, I opened my eyes, expecting to find my bare, lonely room…yet I didn't find it. What I did find was quite different._

"_M-Miss Sharp?"_

_Miss G. Sharp smiled, and, with her fingertips, brushed the hair away from my face; a terrifying leap of—was it pleasure?—scattered my thoughts, and I only stared. She, somehow, seemed to think nothing strange of the fact that she was—as I soon ascertained—in my bed, much less curled very close to me, her face rather nearer to mine than I was quite comfortable with. _

"_Morning," she said softly, and, leaning in, pressed her mouth to my forehead before I could do anything to prevent it. Again, that strange, breathless, soaring feeling…._

"_And how many times have I told you: call me Gwendolyn, Bernard."_

_I was nearly too bewildered to voice the all too obvious question; swallowing, I managed to say, in a tone lacking its usual dryness:_

"_Why are you in my bed?"_

_She shrugged, as if the matter hardly needed an explanation, and said simply:_

"_I wanted to see you. Besides," as her hand went out to rest on my cheek and slowly moved downwards, "you like my company—don't you?"_

"_N-not particularly," I replied, finding it hard to be cool and impassive when her hand was at my chest, slowly descending…_

_Gwendolyn only laughed quietly, and let her touch rest for a few moments on my tensed, tingling abdomen; I'd been about to say something further, but at this point it was lost as my breath hitched…_

"_I like yours," she told me, slipping that damned hand beneath my shirt and letting the other slowly follow it. A ball of impossible, crackling warmth was forming in the very pit of my stomach, and seemed to be quivering, very near exploding…_

_The feeling of her hand on my skin as she trailed it up and down my torso was—there was no other word for it—alarming. Prickling trails of heat were racing though my body, and I tensed, horrified by the unmistakable groan that had, unbidden, forced its way out of my mouth..._

"_Miss Sharp," I said, desperately trying to sound detached and contemptuous. "I will ask again, and this time I—" _

_But my little speech was cut suddenly short when Gwendolyn grinned, like some sort of devious sprite, and put a finger to my mouth. The sensation was, like all the others, befuddling…I wanted very much to let my mouth touch a good deal more of her…_

"_Sssh," she whispered, her nose touching mine. And, without another word, she wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed my open mouth._

I awoke with a jolt, staring into the cold, fetid darkness of my apartment and blinking in confusion. The room was chilly, but I was, for some reason, extremely warm…instinctively, I brought a hand to my face, wiping away a fine film of perspiration. Something within me stirred, and I suddenly grew even warmer…

_Gwendolyn_…

All of it—_her_, her hands on me, her caresses and the softness of her mouth—had been a dream. I was quite alone, and there was certainly no one in bed with me. It had been just a dream—a filthy, repugnant dream. Yet it had left me with a peculiar feeling; my stomach—my whole body, in fact—was tight and clenched, as if in pain, and there was an _aching_, somewhere just below my abdomen, both pleasurable and painful.

It took me a moment to discern the problem—and then many, many moments to truly take it in.

_I had been having an…intimate dream…concerning the **Sharp** girl…and, what was more, it had—**pleased** me. _

Perhaps the last part was truly the salt in the wound; it would have been one thing to dream of Gwendolyn in that way and then wake up quietly revolted, or at least apathetic. It was quite another to dream of her and then to—to react in such a way. To be _pleased_ by it.

Even in my incredibly limited acquaintance with the feeling—we were nearly strangers—I could, instinctually, recognize it—and it sickened me. I did not want to like such dreams; to me, sex had always been something faintly vile, something crude which I never understood, and which disgusted me. Lust was a feeling hence only heard of, a feeling to be scoffed at, a feeling experienced only by adolescent boys and men who visited houses of ill repute. That _I_ should feel it—and, what's more, that I should feel it, in however small a degree, towards _Gwendolyn Sharp_—was insupportable. That I should even want to touch her was unthinkable; until now, for the longest time I had wanted, needed nobody. Until now, I had been quite self sufficient, completely apathetic towards whatever life might throw at me. It had been a good arrangement; I hated everyone, and they in turn utterly despised me. And yet, somehow, I did not hate Gwendolyn Sharp—and, oddly enough, she did not seem to loathe me. Wholly bewildered, I swallowed hard and, before I could stop myself, groaned quietly at the memories swirling about.

Clenching, I tried to face what I had a horrible suspicion was the truth.

_I feel-lust for Sharp…there's more to this than I thought…_

Dammit.

"What's been going on with Bernard? He's been—different lately."

I raised my eyebrows and stopped in my tracks at the sound of my own name; there, speaking earnestly several feet away, were two of my—colleagues, a thoroughly uninteresting young man whose name I didn't bother to know, and a young woman, nameless for the same reason. Neither saw me as I stood there for that moment, more from instinct than curiosity; I was preparing to shrug and walk on when the man spoke.

"Yea, he has; I dunno what the deal is. You think that redhead girl has something to do with it?"

This stopped me at once; _they thought I was behaving strangely—and that Sharp had something to do with it. How absurd._

Yet, despite the inanity of it all, I could not help but stand there, wondering what other—mistaken conclusions they had formed.

"Think so; they sure do talk a lot."

_On the contrary—**she** talks to **me**. It is not a mutual agreement._

"You think he's got a thing for her?"

Oh, for God's sake; as if I had a _thing_ for Sharp. As if I felt anything for her other than indifference—with, perhaps, a small amount of…meaningless physical want. That was certainly no grounds for any sort of _thing_ between us.

The man laughed.

"Bernard? Have a thing for someone? Doubt it."

"Well, she seems to kinda like him. She always visits him, and she doesn't seem like she's keen on the museum or anything—she just comes to see Bernard. I think she's got a little crush on him."

Again, the skeptical male snorted in derision.

"On Bernard? God help her! If so, she's the first of her kind."

"And the last," agreed the girl, smiling and forgetting the topic already. "You wanna go grab some lunch?"

"Certainly."

And so they left, little suspecting the bewilderment with which they'd left me.

I was on my way back to check over a few exhibits when I nearly knocked into a very untidy, hurried-looking Gwendolyn Sharp. I just looked at her, betrayed for just a moment into something very much like shame…but my natural dryness soon came to my aid, and, in my coolest voice I managed to murmur:

"Gwendolyn. The day gets better and better."

She smiled just as she always did, as if we were the dearest of chums, and perched on the railing, greeting me cheerfully. Unbidden, I remembered:

_I think she's got a little crush on him…_

I shook my head, quickly dispelling any nonsense. Idiots, all of them; the thought of Gwendolyn—or anyone—having a "crush" on someone such as myself was simply—nonsense. That would imply an excessive liking, to say the least—and no one liked me. Miss Sharp did not despise me, perhaps, but I was certain she did not like me, and I was more than certain she did not harbor any (I grimaced) romantic feelings towards me or anyone else. We were not even friends; I had seen to that.

"Bernard?"

Jerking out of my baffling, ridiculous reverie, I replied:

"What?"

"Are you alright? You looked—upset for a moment."

"Are you concerned?" I asked, shrugging. A little flustered, she looked away for a moment and said, with rather forced brightness:

"You know I've always been concerned for your welfare, Bernard."

Ah, so I had again struck some kind of chord; slightly curious as to just what sort of chord this was, I decided to show the impudent thing I could startle her just as she had startled me time and time again.

"Gwendolyn, have you ever been kissed?"

She nearly choked on air; as her cheeks began to match her hair she stuttered:

"What the hell prompted you to ask that?"

"Overpowering interest in your fascinating love life," I returned, as drily as ever. This did not satisfy her, of course, and she persisted:

"Since when do you care?"

I slowly let out my breath; young women and their unnecessary questions.

"I don't. I am, however, bored beyond imagining at the moment and women love to talk about their—escapades. I may as well damage my intellect and listen to yours."

This seemed to both fluster and offend her; shaking her head slightly, she said rather haughtily:

"You shouldn't presume things, _Mr. Grahame._"

Never before had she called me so formally; I found myself, for some strange reason, disliking it. I rather preferred, from her lips, the more easygoing "Bernard".

With a very faint smirk, seeing that I was gaining on her, I said:

"So you have never been kissed, _Miss Sharp?_"

"Of course I've been kissed, who hasn't?" she said rather hastily, as the color burned deeper in her face.

I could think of one person who hadn't.

Before I could say something, however, she continued, somewhat breathlessly:

"It's just—it was only once and it wasn't something I enjoyed. I'm trying to forget it, actually."

"I'm sure the feeling was mutual."

Her eyes flashed, and I was rather surprised at myself; I had not quite meant to say that. It had simply come out, borne of a strange, unpleasant feeling within me—a feeling which had started at the image of her kissing someone else.

"You're an ass."

And then I did something I'd never expected to do, and, jerkily, uncertainly, reached out and put one finger to her lower lip, jolting at the yielding, soft warmth of it.

_What the hell am I doing?_

Silent and stiff as a board now, Gwendolyn just stared at me with enormous eyes; I realized after a moment that she had stopped breathing. Very, very sarcastically, I used her own damnable words upon her, smirking at the thought that I'd gotten her this time.

"'You're cute when you blush.'"


	9. Chapter 9

"Mr. Bernard, sir?"

I was roused from a sound sleep by the timid call of Elmer, once again standing outside my door, wanting to do his job. Damn him; why couldn't he do this at a less God-forsaken hour? As I lay there, contemplating letting him just stand there until he left, the call came again.

"Mr. Bernard, sir? I have to clean."

He spoke softly, yet with that dogged persistence which seemed characteristic of hesitant men; sighing, I made myself quickly decent and opened the door to see a baseball cap nodding deferentially at me.

"Elmer."

"Mr. Bernard, sir."

The greetings having been dispensed with, he slunk past me and began his apathetic cleaning process.I checked the battered clock by my bed; it was only 10 after five. Following my gaze, the man said, apologetically:

"Family troubles again, Mr. Bernard, sir."

I did not care enough to expend the energy needed in a response, so the silence lagged on. At last, quietly, Elmer spoke.

"Mr. Bernard, sir?"

"What?"

His eyes were fixed on his sopping gray mop as he asked:

"Who's Gwendolyn, sir?"

I regret to say I nearly lost my composure in front of the idiot for a moment; blinking, I said, as drily as possible:

"I beg your pardon?"

"Gwendolyn, Mr. Bernard, sir. Who is Gwendolyn."

He spoke without curiousity, without question marks. Abruptly suspicious, I looked at him had for a moment before, seeing that he was as impassively timid as ever, replying:

"An exceedingly irritating, very forward sightseer of little consequence. Why?"

He shrugged, and continued to clean, now straightening the dingy sheets on my bed.

"You said her name, Mr. Bernard, sir. In your sleep. I heard you outside."

My hands clenched automatically, and I stiffened; he was a liar. The man was an abominable, pathological liar. That was the only explanation for it. It was unthinkable that he should be telling the truth—that I had actually been saying Miss Sharp's name like a lovesick milksop in the first thralls of adolescence. Coolly, I shrugged once more and said, humoring him in his shamless deceit:

"It appears the nightmare that constitutes my life is rubbing off on my dreams."

I thought the matter quite over, and turned around, congratulating myself on the successful termination of another unnecessary discourse, when, with uncharacteristic boldness, Elmer spoke up.

"Mr. Bernard, sir?"

I stopped.

"Yes?"

His voice was still quiet and timid, but there was something in those unassuming eyes which was almost—knowing.

"It didn't sound like a nightmare, sir."

"Top of the morning, Bernard!"

I closed my eyes and did my best not to allow even the faintest trace of a grimace to cross my face; I had learned long ago that, with people in general, to show emotion was to give them a victory.

"I don't speak Irish."

She just laughed, as usual, as if I had cracked some sort of joke, and replied:

"Mercy, you are just in rare form today. What's wrong, bad dream?"

The words "bad dream" had an uncanny effect on me; startled out of my reserve, I found myself saying, in a startled, almost fierce voice:

"How did you know?"

Her eyes widened, and she backed away, hands going up so as to show her "unconditional surrender"; stammering, she replied:

"Wh-what are you talking about?"

Immediately realizing my blunder, and exceedingly mortified, I quickly assumed my most impassive "poker face" and said calmly:

"Nothing. Never mind. Why are you here, Gwendolyn?"

"The same reason I've here every day, Bernard," she said lightly, taking her usual spot on the forbidden rail. "To offer you tidings of comfort and joy, good will to everyone, etc. A simple thank you would make the job a bit easier, I think."

I almost snorted wryly at her quip—but stopped myself just in time. If I started laughing—however sarcastically—at her jokes, the little chit might think she was _funny_, and I was not about to boost her self esteem in any way whatsoever.

"You're in a boisterous temper, Miss Sharp," I said by way of reply. She beamed at nothing in particular and said, as if I really cared to know why:

"I have set my mind at ease, Bernard. No longer am I a tortured soul, but a liberated being."

"I'm ecstatic to hear it."

"You should be," she said, and for a moment looked rather serious. Then the solemnity vanished, and she was once more a smirking sprite, dangling her legs like a child and contemplating me with mischievous eyes.

Oh, God.

"Bernard," she said, after a moment of me working and steadily ignoring her.

I didn't respond; likewise, she didn't give up.

"Bernard, have _you_ ever been kissed?"

I swallowed, and fought to keep back the blush I knew was threatening to overtake me; damn Gwendolyn Sharp and her tactless, alarming questions.

"I choose not to answer that."

"Oh, c'mon!" she wheedled, taking my arm. Her fingers seemed to burn right through my sleeve; again, it was necessary to swallow hard.

"I answered you when you asked!"

Extricating myself from her grasp, I replied:

"Why should I be answerable to your stupidity?"

"Oh, come now, don't be sour. I was simply wondering. All it takes is a yes or a no, Bernard, and then I'll leave you alone about it forever and ever. Promise."

"I doubt that seriously, Miss Sharp."

"It's Gwendolyn, dammit! Gwendolyn, Gwendolyn, Gwendolyn! Now please, please, please tell me. I trusted you with a bit of my personal life, didn't I?"

"I don't like to repeat myself, Gwendolyn."

"Well, don't. Save yourself the trouble and answer my question."

I thought about it; she was a persistent thing, and God knew how long she'd keep up her interrogation act if I didn't reply…

Gritting my teeth, I decided I'd have the damned thing over with right now, and shut her up.

"Very well, No, I have never undergone the torturous process mentioned above. Is your inner Roxanne Ritchi satisfied?"

She looked, for a moment, quite affronted; I bit back a smirk.

"Don't compare me to her!"

Then, recalling my answer, the pique vanished, and she said in a much softer voice:

"Oh, alright then. Th-thanks, Bernard."

I twitched a shoulder in reply and turned away, aggravated by the pity in her eyes. I did not want pity, for God's sake; pity was for the weak. I was not weak in the least. Quietly, she said my name.

"Bernard?"

"What is it?"

"I-I want to tell you something."

"Undoubtedly fascinating as it may be, I would prefer you didn't."

"Bernard, I'm serious."

"So am I," I was going to say—but didn't. Because Gwendolyn Sharp took my shoulder and gently turned me round; standing quite a bit closer to me than I was comfortable with, she swallowed, and, suddenly seeming nervous, said:

"So—I er—well, that is—"

And then she shook her head, and a wild look came into her eyes; her back straightened, and she seemed to be steeling herself for something. I just raised an eyebrow wondering what stupidity the girl was up to next.

"Screw it!" she said, breathlessly. "You wouldn't get it anyway."

And, before I could respond with the typical scorcher, the infuriating girl took my face in both hands—I went up in flames at an alarming rate—and, without even asking my permission, flashed me a quick smile and pressed her mouth to mine.


	10. Chapter 10

_Hello, and thank you to all the amazing people who reviewed or alerted this! I know I ended at a bit of a cliffhanger there, but here's the rest of Bernard and Gwen's kiss! Enjoy!_

I think for a few moments I simply stood there, shocked beyond retort, beyond movement, beyond even simple indignation—and then my head stopped working, and I clumsily pulled her closer, wanting her warm, innocent body as near mine as possible. My hands fumbled for a bit, not sure where to go, before finally settling on her waist; a strange shiver went through me as Gwendolyn sighed against my mouth, and something in the pit of my stomach jolted ecstatically.

_So this was lust_.

Gwendolyn's hands were in my hair, having run up the back of my neck (an act which in itself made me exceedingly disoriented) and her mouth was—strange. It was not at all how I had, in my brief, rather disgusted adolescent musings, pictured the female mouth to be; it was softer, sweeter, and much more mobile. The taste was, for once, beyond description. Gently, the very tip of her tongue traced the curve of my lip; bewildered (this had never made it into my mental pictures nor my dreams) but very willing, I heard myself groan softly, involuntarily…and then my desire became far too evident, and I pulled away quickly, the panic just stabbing through the wild confusion in my head.

My God.

Gwendolyn just stood there, looking as if she'd just been handed the moon. Confusion slowly overtook her, and, dazed, she whispered:

"B-Bernard?"

I turned away and grabbed at the rail—the rail _she'd_ been on—so tightly that my knuckles stood out, sharp and starkly white. I bit down hard on nothing, ashamed and—how I hated the word—aroused and uncomprehending all at once. And, way in the back of my mind, there was anger. Unreasoning anger. Anger at myself for letting this—this sordid thing happen, for allowing the walls to come down,and anger at _her_, at Sharp, for making me _want_ her, for embroiling me in some cheap Harlequin-esque situation.

I would _not _lust for Gwendolyn Sharp. The idea was unthinkable, almost repulsive. Clenching my jaw yet harder, I said through my teeth:

"Stay away from me, Miss Sharp."

"What?"

She sounded hurt and baffled and very much taken aback—as if she had not expected this. I took \a deep, ragged breath, and loathed the world ten times over for finding my weakness.

"Miss Sharp, I refuse to be subject to these—these _feelings_," I said stiffly, determinedly facing the exhibit and not her. If I had my way, I'd live out the remainder of my life with this pleasant omission.

Yet, deep down, much as I hated to think it, something in me disagreed. However repellent the thought was, there was a certain part of me that—liked—looking at Gwendolyn, at her tumbled reddish hair, at her pale, expressive face, at her always moving legs…

And deep down, there was a part of me that did not at all like the feeling of never seeing Miss Sharp again.

"Wh-what feelings, Bernard?" she stuttered, utterly in the dark. I grimaced, not sure how to explain to her what constituted such feelings. Couldn't the idiot girl put two and two together? She seemed near as new to this as I was.

"I refuse to—_lust_ like a common schoolboy. Kindly leave me."

There was a silence; at last, Gwendolyn murmured:

"Y-you want me to go?"

"I believe that's what I said," in an attempt at the old causticness.

"And it—it's only lust?" she said softly, still standing there. I was rather surprised by how—_docilely_ Sharp was taking this; I'd somewhat expected a bout of fury, or at least indignation. Where was the volatile Sharp temper now?

I closed my eyes at her question, not wanting to consider it too deeply. Yes, it was only lust…it had to be. Lust in itself was bad enough, I would not stand for anything more.

"I sincerely hope so," I said, honestly enough. Another silence—and then she left without a word, and I just stood there, free at last of her irksome, utterly bewildering company.

Yet, far, far in the back of my mind, I couldn't help but be a little disappointed that it was over so quickly.

-888888—

I went home that day with the taste of Gwendolyn's mouth still lingering on mine; there was also a strange prickling on the back of my neck, as if her hands were running up it once more…disgusted with myself, I devoured a quick dinner and went to bed, hoping to gain some respite from these strange, inexplicable sensations there.

But not even sleep proved a stronghold, and I awoke once more in the middle of the night, hot and sweaty and appalled, having dreamt up a much longer, more daring version of the kiss.

-888888—

She did not come and see me the next day. I worked steadily, becoming occasionally distracted when footsteps approached, thinking she had come back just to pique me…and always feeling a faint twinge of—something when the footsteps belonged to someone else, someone who walked right by me as if I were part of the exhibit. I simply kept at my work, going through paperwork without really reading it, and told myself that I was simply unused to so much lovely silence.

The day after went by, and still no Gwendolyn. Nor was she there the day after…or the day after that…

I barely even listened to Kate Hemmings' continued taunts, and, when she asked snidely where my 'titian haired lover' had gone, I found I could not muster up an appropriately snarky reply.

-87654321—

Five days after Gwendolyn Sharp so unceremoniously pounced upon me, I at last admitted to myself that the silence was wearisome. Reassuring myself that I was still out of sorts from the recent developments, I left and went into the nearest coffee shop, determined to take a brief hiatus and rid myself of that annoying want for her company.

I had just had my typical exchange with the coffee girl, and was seated at one of the little tables, drinking the somewhat tepid stuff when I spotted, out of the corner of my eye, a glossy auburn-colored head, bent with uncharacteristic sorrow over a coffee. My heart seemed to cease beating for a moment, and I was, suddenly, dangerously close to smiling…but any such risk was immediately lost when I caught sight of another head sitting across from her, one covered with curling dark hair, one which undoubtedly belonged to a male…

The man was speaking quietly to her, and I was overwhelmed by a sudden bout of unreasonable rage as I saw him reach over and stroke her hand…

Damn him. Damn him to the darkest pits of Hades.

"I-I know I'm being stupid," Gwendolyn was saying, a strange quaver in her voice. It almost sounded as if she were…crying. I was rather bowled over by the thought; Gwendolyn Sharp didn't cry.

"I-I just…I dunno what to do about it. I messed everything up…"

"C'mon, Gwen, it's alright," the abhorrent companion soothed, still touching her hand with what seemed to me unthinkable audacity. "How long have you er—been like this?"

"How long have I been so weepy, you mean?" she asked, with a trace of the old lightness in her tone. "Not long…I-I haven't really cried over it since it happened…well, except for right afterwards…I've been trying to be cheerful and all that, but today I just—I couldn't help it. I had to let-let it out."

I confess to being stunned; was Gwendolyn Sharp really saying that she was crying…over _me_? Did she…did she have—the phrase was peculiar in this context—_feelings_ for me? Absurd…

Well, regardless of Miss Sharp's incomprehensible, thoroughly female inner workings, I was not about to let some curly haired fop in hipster jeans make his move on the defenseless, trusting Miss Sharp. Seething, I approached their table and said, very coldly:

"Excuse me."

Gwendolyn gasped, and her eyes widened; immediately, she dropped her gaze, and fiddled furiously with her napkin as if her life depended upon it. Meanwhile, her doltish savior (I applied the name with the heaviest sarcasm) looked up at me, startled.

"Uh…yes?"

"Do you not have something to do?"

His eyebrows went up, and instantly he was on the offensive.

"Excuse me?"

"You're excused," I said, biting back the anger welling within me. I had not been so…emotional for many years… "Your ministrations are no longer needed. Please take your leave."

"Who the hell are you?"

"That is really none of your business," I said, in an attempt at my former coolness. "Please leave and employ yourself more usefully in the future."

"Bernard!" cried Gwendolyn, though with, I thought, a faint hint of pleasure in her tone. "I'm sorry, Jeremy," she apologized to my utterly outraged antagonist. Of course his name was Jeremy; leave it to a fool to have such a loathsome name. "He's—he's not normally this—well, he's not normally like this. I-I think I'd better go; thanks so much, Jeremy, for all your help."

"You know this guy?" demanded the nonplussed Jeremy, as Gwendolyn, with a pink nose and suspiciously wet eyes, gathered up her things.

"We are acquaintances," I said icily, seeing as she seemed without an answer. And without another word, I left, hoping in the back of my mind—I was revolted that I should care—that she would follow me.

888888

She did. Within a moment, I felt a small, familiar hand on my shoulder, stopping me, turning me round. I did so accordingly, noting, with faint amusement, that she was once more riled; her eyes were snapping pure fire, and her mouth was set, while her cheeks were scarlet. Oh, yes, Gwendolyn Sharp was something else when she was angry.

"What the hell is your problem?"

"If you're going to speak in such general terms, we won't ever get anywhere. Please be more specific."

"You know just what I mean! What on earth possessed you to be so abominably rude to poor Jeremy?"

"Oh, him," dismissively; I had, by now, regained my indifference to the world in general.

Well, most of the world…

"Really, Miss Sharp, you should be thanking me. He obviously had intentions which were less than pure."

"What are you talking about? He had no intentions!"

"Then he has no ambition, and I saved you from a thoroughly dependent relationship."

The sparks in her eyes ignited, and I thought for a moment she was going to hit me—but all she did was make a sound of sheer exasperation and say:

"Oh, go to hell! Besides, why would you care about his intentions? You said I was never to come near you again—ohhhhhh."

I didn't like that knowing look in her eyes, and the way she was starting to smile; cautiously, I said:

"What is your revelation, Sharp?"

She smirked.

"You're jealous, aren't you?"

Immediately I felt myself growing rather defensive; she was being preposterous. As if I were envious of anyone's standings with someone as purely irritating as Gwendolyn.

"No, I'm not."

"You are! Either that or suffering from some sort of split personality disorder! I don't see what else would prompt you to act like that."

"Your range of sight is limited, Gwendolyn."

She just shrugged, unbearably convinced of her own absurd theory.

"You're jealous."

Quickly, I did my best to distract her from the irksome subject.

"You were crying."

It worked; turning scarlet again, she mumbled:

"Shut up."

"Why were you crying, Gwendolyn?"

I did my best to sound unconcerned, even insolent—yet, even to myself, I sounded, at the least, curious.

She turned her head away from me, and said stiffly:

"Because I felt like it."

"How sensible and masochistic of you."

"Look, just go away!" she said, sounding angry again. "I thought you never wanted to see me again! What happened to that?"

I made absolutely sure no expression crossed my face as I said, with a shrug:

"Even the most heartfelt statements are occasionally amended."

There was a brief period of quiet as she thought this over; at last, sounding supremely frustrated, she said:

"You know you are one of the most infuriating people I've ever met?"

"The feeling is mutual."

Gwendolyn laughed, the ire leaving her countenance by degrees.

"I'd better go now, before I get angry at you again. Goodbye, Bernard; I'm so glad you changed your mind. I knew you were fond of me after all."

I raised an eyebrow, rather alarmed by the way my mind didn't immediately contradict her.

"Don't flatter yourself."

"You're not fond of me?" she said easily, not seeming particularly injured by my reply. "Well, I'm fond of you, Bernard. Very much so."

Her last two statements were spoken in a soft, serious, voice, and were accompanied by tinges of deep rose in her cheeks. For a moment, I caught my breath, and wondered what on earth was about to happen….but then she smiled a little ruefully, as if laughing at herself, and hugged me again, arms wrapping around my waist. The habitual stiffening of my body was briefer this time, and my hands found their way more quickly, though still very cautiously, to her back…

"Bye, Bernard," she said into my turtleneck. "Have a good day."

And then she left, tripping quickly along the pavement, and I forever disgraced myself by standing there for a moment with a revolting, involuntary smile on my face


	11. Chapter 11

_AN: Hallo, and thanks again for all the glorious folks who reviewed or alerted! You have no idea how much that means to me! At some point, I intend to name all of you kind souls, and give you the thanks you deserve—that day approaches. Until now, though, please accept this humble offering, and enjoy!_

The next day was mortifying. Like clockwork the Sharp girl made her way over to where I was working, and, taking her typical seat, greeted me with the ever-bright "Good morning, Bernard!" Nodding coolly, I acknowledged her and continued what I was doing—only to be assaulted by a barrage of pure, unbearable Gwendolyn, vivacious and bright and occasionally rather whimsical.

I sighed, and murmured monosyllabic replies, hoping to quench her as quickly as possible. And then, with her typical bluntness, Sharp hit a nerve.

"So is that Hemmings woman still bossing you around?"

I grit my teeth; Kate Hemmings did NOT boss me around, whatever she or anyone else might believe to the contrary.

"As usual, Gwendolyn, you have observed very little and concluded very much. It's one of the first signs of idiocy."

Her eyebrows went up, and one hand went to her hips; her eyes were almost quizzical.

"Oh? So she _doesn't_ keep you here until ungodly hours of the night—_every_ night? Mea culpa."

Damn her. I had no reply for this—for she was, to a very limited extent, right. Turning away, I said:

"And why on earth do you care, Gwendolyn?"

There was a long quiet after this, and I thought for a moment that she would storm off, angry as only she could be—but then she laughed, and I was, as usually happened with Gwendolyn Sharp, puzzled.

"What is so amusing?"

Gwendolyn just laughed harder, and wrapped me in one of her infuriating, alarming hugs; I stood poker straight and stared down at her.

"Bernard, you idiot," she said, at last becoming coherent.

"Gwendolyn, you incompetent."

"Shut up," she said lightly, and pulled away,her smile disappearing and her eyes becoming deadly serious. I just waited, like one caught in the eye of a hurricane, wondering what frightful happening was coming my way.

"Bernard, haven't you figured it out yet?" she asked me, shaking her head and looking almost wry. "God, for someone so bloody smart you're completely oblivious in some things."

"Miss Sharp, if you're going to keep speaking with pronouns, I'm going back to my work."

"No, don't go back yet," she said, holding my sleeve and staring up at me with those large, hazel, incredibly expressive eyes which were at the moment still and solemn. I obeyed simply because I knew she'd pester me if I didn't.

"Very well. Say your piece."

She took a deep breath, and her hand moved down to mine; seriously, yet with a faint defiancy, she said:

"Bernard, I have one simple reason for caring—"

There was a long pause, and I could see her warring with herself over something, something on the tip of her tongue—"and I'm going to tell it to you very soon, dammit. But—not right now," even as she frowned and looked faintly disappointed. "But I _do_ care, and, while I'm here, I'd like to talk to you about something, please."

"My dissent has never stopped you before; go."

Slowly, turning pinker by the moment, she said, in a determinedly casual voice:

"D-do you really lust after me?"

My God. I nearly choked on air, and quickly turned away from her, head spinning. Leave it to Gwendolyn to ask something so grotesquely inappropriate.

"No comment, Miss Sharp," I said, after a moment.

"Oh, it's no good being prickly, I know it was tactless, but I wanted to know. I wanted to see if it was just something you said after—after—"

Here, her words failed her, and the pink turned to a comical scarlet; feeling my own color rise but relishing the opportunity to unnerve Gwendolyn, I smirked and finished:

"After you leapt upon me with ruthless force?"

"I did not 'leap upon you'! I-I just wanted to do it before you caught on and pushed me away. And, besides, you seemed to enjoy it," rather cheekily, observing the tell tale hotness of my face. Damn the little minx.

"It was a novel experience," I murmured, shrugging. "And I decided if I was to be subjected to the process, I may as well better my skills."

I was a liar; I had not decided any of that. In the back of my mind, I knew I had returned Gwendolyn's kiss because I liked the way she tasted, and the feel of being so close to her…

My God, I was headed down a slippery slope.

"Well, be that as it may," she continued, turning with characteristic tenacity to the initial subject. "You're still accountable for your earlier statement. Was it true?"

I said nothing, only raised an eyebrow at her in a lofty sort of way and proceeded to ignore her, in hopes that she'd leave, taking her mortifying questions with her. Seeing my refusal to answer, she smirked, and her eyes became impish.

"I'll find out for myself, then."

For some reason, I was alarmed; I did not at all like the thought of Gwendolyn Sharp "finding out for herself". It sounded rather dangerous.

"Oh? How so?" I drawled, doing my best to sound bored and completely unconcerned.

Her smirk simply widened.

"You'll see. So, Bernard, how has your day been so far?"

And then, before I could ponder over just what I would "see", much less make the standard reply, Gwendolyn's hands were on my shoulders, and she was too close to me, letting them (her hands) make a slow descent down my arms. I swallowed, and did my best to block out the vile images beginning to form in my head—Sharp, slipping those hands into the neck of my shirt…tangling them into my hair…allowing me to lead her into some corner and—

I blushed hard at my own audacity, and shut my eyes firmly, trying to erase such absurd, borderline blasphemous pictures from my mind.

"You are absolutely crimson."

I opened my eyes once more, to look into _her_ rather triumphant ones, as she smirked, one finger lightly touching my burning face. Still shaken and not at all indifferent, I shrugged and mumbled:

"You are a flirt."

"I'm not, and you know it. I-I don't usually do stuff like that—but you left me no choice."

I stared at her in what I hoped was a blank and contemptuous manner. It was difficult to be icy when one's cheeks were ablaze and the rest of one's body was—

"I gave you no answer."

That smirk appeared again, accompanied by a lift of the eyebrows; damn her for looking so knowing. Her hand lightly, fleetingly, caressed my hot cheek.

"Oh, didn't you?"

I found I had no response to that.

-88888—

"Bernard, you look—flustered."

Katherine Hemmings smirked at me over the cup of coffee which most probably contained elements of brandy, while I, still in rather a whirl from my unsettling encounter with The Sharp Child, said nothing, not at all up to making a scathing retort. Encouraged by her comparative victory, the equine female went on:

"I bet I can guess the reason."

I doubted it sincerely.

"It's that girl, isn't it? That redhead girl who always comes to talk to you. Is she initiating you into the sensuous world of physical intimacy? Or have you just hired her for a few cheap thrills?"

Somehow, this touched a nerve; aggravating as Gwendolyn was, Kate had no right at all to even insinuate that she was some sort of cheap harlot. Fists clenching, I said coldly:

"Leave Sharp out of your envious malice, Kate."

She only smiled, however, and walked away with a rather sneering "Touchy, aren't we?". Still considerably angry, I walked quickly out onto the street, to fetch my typical, caffeine-infused sustenance…and, on the way back, it occurred to me to wonder what Gwendolyn's "one reason for caring" was.

_Oh, Bernard…thou art so naïve sometimes._


	12. Chapter 12

_AN: Hello, and thanks again to every single one of you who reviewed or alerted, or even read this! I had a little trouble with this chapter, because I wasn't sure how or where I wanted it to end—so if it seems off, that's why! Also, referring to MythScavenger's latest review: it will come. Don't worry. *evil smile* Anyway, thank you all, and please review! I'd love to know what you think!_

It was eleven thirty on a Saturday night. I had stayed late yet again at the museum, and had then gone by a dingy, suspicious little convenience store for dinner—that is, a large coffee which tasted faintly of cigarettes. Upon arriving at my apartment, I dragged myself up the worn, winding, creaky steps—only to bump into something large and rather solid directly in front of my door. Starting, I looked down—only to see a young woman with her arms around her knees and her head buried in them, apparently asleep. Dear God. Gwendolyn.

"Gwendolyn," I said, trying not to speak too loudly. "Gwendolyn, wake up."

In response, she only murmured and sighed, completely oblivious to the absurd situation in which she had placed me.

"Gwendolyn," I tried again, trying to gently shake her while touching her as little as possible.

"Sharp."

Her eyes fluttered, and she blinked, looking up at me confusedly.

"B-Bernard?" she mumbled, as if it were strange that I should turn up at my own apartment.

"Gwendolyn. Why are you on my doormat?"

Yawning hugely, she said:

"It-it's a long story, Bernard…I'll…I'll tell you tomorrow…I have to go home…"

It was quite clear that she was in no state to drive herself home, particularly if she wanted to do so without endangering human life. Before I could stop myself and carefully assess the situation, I found myself saying:

"Sharp, you aren't driving like this. Come in."

And I unlocked the door, still leaning over her, and waited for her to enter. She got rather unsteadily to her feet, and, beginning to look rather startled, obliged, eyes roving round my dreary quarters. They looked even worse in the dark.

"Th-thanks, Bernard," she said softly, shooting me an uncertain smile. I shrugged, and inwardly cursed myself. What the hell was wrong with me? There were perhaps dozens of solutions—yet I'd picked the one in which The Sharp Child slept in my apartment with me. Much as I tried, I could not stop my ears from burning at the thought.

"You can have the sofa," I said, rather unnecessarily; it was the only piece of furniture, excluding the bed, which did not look fiendishly uncomfortable. Sharp nodded, and, still quite tired, laid down on it, pulling the one thin pillow it came with under her head. Observing her faint shiver (it was always somewhat drafty in my apartment), I said coolly:

"There's an extra blanket beneath the sofa. Good evening. Gwendolyn."

She smiled again, this time more sincerely, and said with no impudence whatsoever:

"Thanks so much. Good evening, Bernard."

And, without another word, she stretched out on the sofa, pulling the dingy coverlet onto her and sighing. Within a few minutes, one could tell from the depth of her breathing that she was asleep. Exhausted myself, I laid in my rather cold bed—and was furious with myself for briefly thinking that it would be a lot warmer were she in it with me.

"_Bernard?"_

_I opened my eyes to see—who else?—Gwendolyn, shivering as she stood by the bed. As I blinked at her, she said softly:_

"_It's very cold in here."_

_I said nothing, but found myself moving back…making room for her…smiling now, she accepted the unspoken invitation, and within a moment was lying very close to me…my bed was quite small…_

"_That's much better," she murmured, lying so that her back was pressed to my chest. My arms, of their own accord, were slipping around her waist, thrilling in the feeling of pulling her closer—_

"Mr. Bernard, sir?"

The dream shattered into little, severely embarrassing pieces at the timid call of Elmer; I suppressed a groan. Why was he here on a Sunday, my one day of rest? Why could he not leave me be?

"Mr. Bernard, sir? Please open the door."

It seemed I was not meant for respite, no matter how fleeting; exceedingly warm—an effect of my dream, I feared—I put on my glasses and opened the door, to once again look upon the nervous countenance of my cleaning man as he twisted his hands together.

"What do you want?"

"Mr. Bernard, sir, I'm sorry, sir—you forgot to pay me again, Mr. Bernard, sir."

He was right; I had indeed forgotten his paycheck, and I doubted I had twenty dollars lying around the house. Dammit.

Without a word, I nodded and walked off, while Elmer, unsure of what to do, advanced slowly into my apartment. From the sofa there came a little sigh, and a confused murmur. Shit; I'd forgotten Gwendolyn's presence. Damn Elmer and his bad timing.

"Bernard?" mumbled Sharp,and I heard the sofa wheeze as she sat up. "Bernard, wha's going on?"

I, busily employed in checking every rotting old cabinet and drawer for any change whatsoever, said nothing, and hoped Elmer would follow suit. I should have known better.

"Mr. Bernard, sir?" he said, meekly.

"Yes?"

"Is—is that Gwendolyn, sir?"

Damn! Gritting my teeth, I said, in a voice which plainly intimated he cease and desist:

"Apparently."

"You know me?" Sharp said softly, sounding confused. From the corner of my eye (I was now checking the flicker old refrigerator), I saw the idiotic Elmer nod, and say simply:

"Mr. Bernard has mentioned you before, Miss Gwendolyn, miss."

"Oh, has he?" she said, and I nearly winced at the elvish tone creeping into her voice. "And what did Mr. Bernard say, please?"

Unused to receiving so much attention, and—the fool—rather flattered at receiving said attention from a young woman, the bumbling idiot forgot his mortal fear of "Mr. Bernard, sir" for a moment and said:

"Yes, Miss Gwendolyn, miss. He didn't say much, miss—just your name. It was in his sleep, Miss Gwendolyn, miss. And I asked him about it and he said you weren't important."

"That sounds like Mr. Bernard," mused Gwendolyn lightly, as I stared fixedly into the refrigerator and contemplated shoving Elmer out of a window. "But that first part is rather odd. He was saying my name in his sleep, you say?"

"Yes, Miss Gwendolyn, miss. Several times, miss."

"How interesting," murmured the Sharp Minx, far too demurely for my tastes. "Thank you so much."

"It was a pleasure, Miss Gwendolyn, miss—"

At this point he saw me reurning with empty hands and a very pale, set face, and I had the pleasure of watching his Adam's Apple bob in his throat as he recalled the presence of cold, unfriendly Mr. Bernard, sir, whose secrets he had just been so shamelessly spilling.

"If you don't have the money, that's alright, Mr. Bernard, sir," he said quickly, already turning to go. "I-I'll get it Monday, sir."

"Oh, is that why you're here?" inquired Gwendolyn, already digging in her pockets. "Here," handing him two bills as I watched in helpless indignation. Charity from Sharp; God, I had sunk so low.

Elmer, meanwhile, gazed in blatant disbelief at the money in his hands, mouth slightly open. He looked up, regarding Gwendolyn as one might a very altruistic goddess.

"Forty dollars," he breathed. "Thank you, Miss Gwendolyn, miss."

"That's two weeks' pay, and you can consider it from Mr. Bernard, sir."

He nodded quickly in my direction, the baseball cap bobbing.

"Thank you, Mr. Bernard, sir. Goodbye, sir, I'll be back tomorrow, sir. Thank you again."

I waited until he was ambling off to whatever his mode of transportation was—I'd never taken the trouble to find out—to turn to Sharp, and say, bitingly:

"Your charity is appreciated, Miss Sharp."

Her eyes flashed.

"I told you, a little friendly help is NOT charity! You can pay me back if that will make you feel independent, but I need you to understand that a favor is not equivalent to charity! I care about you, I don't want you to be indebted to that poor cleaning man! Besides," starting to smile once more, "you can think of it as a payment of my debts; I talked that man into telling me about your er—nocturnal monologues."

As much as I willed myself not to blush and give it all away, my body disregarded me, and I swore internally as I felt my neck warm at a very fast pace, and then felt it spread almost all the way up to my hairline…

"Yes, that was quite the nightmare," I murmured, twitching one shoulder as indifferently as I could manage.

"If it was a nightmare, then why are you scarlet in the face?" she inquired, one corner of her mouth turning upwards. I had nothing to say to this, no quick retort to brush away her impudence, no scathing zinger with which I'd leave her utterly floored; it was alarming how frequently this was beginning to happen.

Raising my eyebrows in utter disdain, I turned away, leaving her to her absurdity—only to feel her hand on my arm, stopping me.

"Hey," she said, and her voice was all softness now, the teasing gone. "Look, I don't know what's—er—going on exactly, but it's alright, whatever it is. You don't have to—well, you don't have to look like that."

"You're quite right," I deadpanned, refusing to be won over. "You don't know."

But for once the tempestuous Miss Sharp ignored the tempting red herring, stifled her temper, and said, still very gently:

"Bernard, is something wrong? You've been—strange these past few days. Is something going on?"

And again, she stood quite close to me, and her eyes stared straight into mine, sincere and anxious. It entered my mind that the "concerned" look became her; it softened her wildness, her flashing eyes, and sweetened her mouth…in fact, she was almost-

I shook my head. No, Gwendolyn was _not_ pretty, nor would I ever be fooled into thinking such a thing.

Thinking I had answered her question, Gwendolyn Sharp bit her lower lip—and I was absolutely horrified by the urge I had to bend a little and kiss it…

"Alright," she said, quietly. "I think I have teased you enough. I suppose I may as well give you reason to tease me."

"Be still, my heart."

Again, she ignored my snarky reply, and went on:

"I-I wasn't going to tell you this for a long while, but I decided I may as well get it over with now. You asked me a couple days ago," (she took a quick breath, and again that nervousness began to appear in her eyes, as well as the unexplainable tension) "why I should care about—about you, or what happens to you."

Seeing as the irritating girl paused and didn't seem inclined to continue, I murmured tonelessly:

"And why should you, Sharp?"

Gwendolyn swallowed, and I could see her steeling herself for something; I rather wished she'd just get on with it.

"Because I love you, Bernard."

_AN: Oh, damn! I just realized I completely forgot to include the explanation for why Gwen is there! Rest assured, it will be there at the next chapter; I have one, I swear! Sorry! Thanks for bearing with me!_


	13. Chapter 13

4

_AN: Hallo, and thanks to everybody out there who is reading this, and everybody who has reviews/alerted it. You fellows make my day!_

If Gwendolyn had told me she was actually with child, I could not have been more startled…nor more immediately distrustful. It was a joke. The whole thing had to be some sort of cruel prank, set up by Sharp and her undoubtedly giggling companions…it had always been a joke…

"_Bernard?"_

_I was eight years old and buried in a book about the history of Metro City; looking up, I saw a little girl about my age with big blue eyes and strawberry blonde curls…a little girl whom I'd always thought rather pretty, if a bit of a snob…_

"_Yes?"_

_She giggled, and said, in a soft, shy voice:_

"_I like you."_

_For several moments I was stunned, unable to believe my good fortune. Someone liked me…someone I'd grossly misjudged…maybe I had a friend after all…_

"_Really?" I said seriously, almost smiling. "You do?"_

_But then she laughed, and the shyness vanished._

"_Yeah," she said, rolling her eyes. "Sure."_

_And she went back to her group of friends, all hysterical with laughter; I could hear them ridiculing me for the rest of the day._

I stared down at Gwendolyn, at her big, convincingly sincere eyes, at her mouth, somewhat open, and the earnestness blazing in every line of her face…and was instantly disgusted. So all she'd ever wanted was a laugh at my expense. I moved back, creating a reasonable distance between us.

"Aren't you amusing," I said simply, tonelessly. Her mouth fell open, and for a moment she only gaped, seemingly rendered mute. I chalked this up as a victory; I had very rarely seen her speechless.

"Bernard…do you think I'm kidding? Don't you believe me?"

I said nothing, only raised my eyebrows and let the silence hang. The little chit would give up the game soon enough, and perhaps confess at some point…

Yet she seemed so sincere…

"Bernard, please say something," she said, after a moment of awful and utter stillness. "Laugh at me, make some snide remark, crush me, I don't care! Look, I've shown you my heart; you have the chance to smash it to pieces! Take it! Just say something!"

I scrutinized her carefully, trying to detect the insincerity which I knew had to be there, and wished I could do what she said. I wished desperately that I could smirk at her, and say something about how emotional women were, how illogical in love…yet there was something in me that was _pleased_ by the thought of (on the wild assumption that it was true) Miss Sharp's feelings, something that warmed me and nearly forced a smile onto my face...

_If she loved me, I was loved. Someone truly cared for me…._

How strange. Pity it was all another tasteless hoax.

"I wish I could," I said, before I could think of how horribly revealing that sentence was. Her eyes widened, and she stared at me for a moment; I could almost see the blank shock, and then the wheels beginning to move behind her eyes.

"What do you mean?" she nearly whispered, as if she was hardly daring to believe something.

"Nothing, Miss Sharp," I said in a flat voice, hoping she'd let the matter drop. How silly of me.

"No, you meant something," she said quietly, brow furrowing as she looked over me. "Please tell me."

"No."

There was a pause, and I watched her chew her lip, thinking the whole thing over; at last, she said, in a rather shaky voice:

"D-do you—do you…love…me? At all?"

My answer came quickly, instinctively, without stopping to even consider my feelings.

"I don't love."

She nodded rather ruefully, as if she had quite expected this, and replied:

"So, no then?"

But I found I could not affirm this; after a moment of struggling, of vainly telling myself that it was merely lust and would quickly pass, I sighed and sat down on the sofa, holding my head wearily in my hands, not looking at her.

"I don't know," I said, finally, hating myself—and her—for being so indecisive, for not immediately saying no…and meaning it.

Oh, wouldn't she and her friends have a laugh.

I heard her draw in a quick breath, and tentatively she sat beside me, reaching out and gently placing a hand on mine. I didn't protest, nor move my hand; I was too absorbed in the frightful revelation which was suddenly becoming all too clear.

I was, to some extent, _in love_—of all the foul and unseemly clichés!—with Gwendolyn Sharp. I, who was not interested in love, who had gone nearly my whole life without it, who had nearly invalidated its existence, was going soft for the stubborn, aggravating, auburn-haired Sharp chit, perhaps the most annoying woman in the world. The warmth, the softness I'd been so repressing, particularly since my more—disturbing dreams, had risen up, forcing me to acknowledge it.

Damn it. Damn Sharp, and her way of finding the chinks in my armor…of making new ones…

It was strange that something so ghastly could also be—pleasurable.

"Why are you afraid to love, Bernard?" Gwendolyn asked softly, her thumb stroking the line of my wrist. "What do you think is going to happen?"

I found myself unable to quite answer that; I didn't really know _what_ I visualized happening, only that it was frightening and vulnerable and—if I was being strictly honest with myself—wonderful. So, instead, I murmured:

"I have been the victim of too many practical jokes, Miss Sharp, to lightly accept the word of a capricious female."

"But this isn't a practical joke, Bernard!" she protested, and again I admired her histrionic powers, squelching any stirrings of hope. It was all an act—simply an act. "Look, do you think I would put myself on the line like that for the sake of a tacky joke? And why on earth would I do that to you? You know I—you know I'm not like that. I care about you."

And, without any warning, she cupped her hand around my cheek, and, quite oblivious to the way my skin tingled as she stared into my eyes, said:

"Please believe me."

I said nothing, just took a deep breath and tried to collect myself, even as I found my head inclining instinctively towards hers. Quickly, she closed the distance and, before I even registered her movement, kissed me. This one was different from its predecessor; it was much slower, much softer. Her fingers were a good deal gentler as they slipped into my hair, and the crackles of electricity roaring through my body were more subdued, occasionally softening into some pleasant, light feeling which I had no name for. Just as before, I lost all will to be distant, all wanting to be cool and contemptuous to her…the only thing left in my mind was the fact that I wanted her, and the rather startled thought (expressed in a soft, exceedingly involuntary _oh_) that her hands, which were now lightly running along my neck and gliding onto my chest, felt very, very nice…

When we pulled away, she smiled breathlessly at me, cheeks pink and eyes enormous, and whispered:

"Did I convince you?"

Still in a Sharp-induced daze and not at all thinking clearly, I mumbled a mortifying "Perhaps" which made her grin and continue:

"Do you know yet? About—the earlier question?"

My mouth was in a state of absolute confusion and refused to function properly; swallowing hard, I said, a little dazedly:

"I'm still—I'm still uncertain."

Gwendolyn smiled more widely than ever, and—the audacious minx—reached up to straighten my glasses, which, over the last few minutes, had become rather crooked.

"That's good enough for me."

-888888—

It wasn't for another 30 minutes that I remembered to ask the long deferred question: what the hell she had been doing on my doorstep. Funny how one lost track of things sometimes…

"Miss Sharp—"

"Gwendolyn."

I sighed.

"Gwendolyn. Fine. Gwendolyn, though this may be a foolish question because of your confirmed stalker-like tendencies, why were you on my doorstep?"

Cheeks already turning steadily pink, she cried:

"I have told you time and again, I am not a stalker! I have a perfectly good explanation, if you'll hear it."

"Blow me away."

Still quite flushed, she went on quickly:

"Well, if you must know, I wanted to give you something, so I stopped by on my way back from work; I knew you wouldn't be home yet, because that bitch Hemmings" (I had a very hard time stifling a smile at this one) "had most probably made you stay late, and I didn't want to just leave it on the doorstep, because I don't trust the neighborhood…so I figured you'd probably be home soon, and I sat and waited and—er—fell asleep. And that's pretty much it."

"What a plausible story," I deadpanned, rather enjoying the heat that rose to her cheeks. "How foolish of me not to consider it before."

"I'm telling the truth, you ass! Look, here's what I wanted to give you!"

And, as I sat there waiting, eyebrows cocked dubiously, she pulled from the inner pocket of her sweater a thin, rectangular package wrapped in plastic—a shirt. I looked over it at her, watching as, once again, her ace began to burn—just a little.

"I-I noticed you always seemed to wear the same stuff, and well—it was looking a little—that is, I thought you might need—well, happy early birthday, Bernard."

I nodded, not quite sure what to say. It had been a very long time since someone had given me a present of any sort…the stereotypical "thank you" seemed stilted and unnatural, so I said nothing, and nodding again, set the still-packaged shirt on my bed.

How…considerate.

-88888-

A little later, she left, saying she had to clean up around her own apartment, and I sat on the side of the bed and put my head in my hands, thinking.

Dear God, had I ever done it now.

Perhaps I'd been too rash; perhaps I wasn't really in love with Gwendolyn. Surely the idea was absurd…yet this happy possibility was just about discredited by the—how I hated the word—_feelings_ she gave me…the unexpected softness, the queer shortage of breath…the multitude of unbidden wishes and desires which at once elated and repulsed me.

I felt…something for Gwendolyn Sharp; that much seemed abysmally clear. And just as clear was the knowledge of how much misery this _something_ would give me. For years I had instinctively distrusted people, instinctively sneered at what they termed "love"—instinctively doubted that I would ever be loved. The whole thing was absurd. I…felt for Gwendolyn, I wanted to believe her, wanted to know that she'd meant what she'd said…yet I could not help but assume that she was insincere. Habit would not allow me to trust her, nor would it let me be open with her.

It seemed that my only hope was to wait and hope this troublesome sensation passed, and I would once again be left to my peaceful solitude.

I decided, grimly, that it couldn't be too difficult to rid myself of this unwanted affection. After all, it was only Sharp.

_AN: I hope y'all enjoyed it! Please review!_


	14. The Sister and the Niece

5

_AN: Hello, and thank you for reading this! I sincerely hope you enjoy it. I'm not too sure about this chapter, but I wanted to introduce Gwen's family into it a little, and I enjoyed his interaction with the niece. Anyway, reviews are absolutely lovely, and I thank every single person who did so, or alerted! Thanks again!_

As it happened, banishing those unsought desires was a little more complicated than I thought, for they had a habit of popping up whenever _she_ came anywhere near me…which seemed to happen more and more often. She was bolder now, now that we'd got everything out in the open, and now her greetings were no longer a wave and a "Hello, Bernard!" but the same gay "Hello!", accompanied by either a lingering hug (which I too often found myself very near returning) or a kiss on my cheek, which usually left me too stunned to concentrate on conquering my—_interest_ in her.

Before she left, she would, typically, whisper "Love you, Bernard" into my ear and scamper off, whilst I blinked stupidly and tried to gather my thoughts. The girl seemed determined to be—affection towards me, and no snide remarks on my part, nor any unreceptiveness in response to these caresses, would or could deter her; she was set upon her ways.

The shirt she had given me was another problem; I found, upon removing the plastic wrapping, that it smelled very much like Gwendolyn…and, furthermore, I found, to my exceeding disgust, that I _liked_ that it smelled like Gwendolyn…that the scent of strawberries and something a little spicy inevitably elicited from me a deep sigh, and sometimes a foolish smile…

I had worn it once, and spent the entire day wishing I hadn't; the smell was overpowering, and would come upon me when I least expected it, addling my brain and making smart retorts extremely difficult…as soon as I had returned home (Hemmings had been absent that day, so I'd actually done so at a reasonable hour), I'd shoved the damnable thing into my drawer, as deep as it would go, and resolved to burn it the next chance I got. Yet, this did not stop my mind from, as I lay in bed, reverting back to the depths of that drawer, and wondering perversely what it would be like to lie in bed with _her_…

What truly bothered me was the fact that I found myself unable to throw the odious thing away, and, whenever I dangled it above the garbage in an attempt to be rid of it, my hand would clench involuntarily, and I'd find myself closing the can and walking away, furious with myself but nevertheless a little glad, very far down, that I had not disposed of it. It was intolerable that I should be placed in a situation such as this—even worse that I should almost _like_ said situation. And yet the shirt stayed, unwanted and a reminder of my shame.

-888888—

Soon after, I realized that, whatever my feelings towards the Sharp girl might be, I did not really know her particularly well; especially not in the disgusting conventional sense. This became abundantly clear one day as she chattered inanely to me in the museum. Suddenly, mid-flow, she ceased, and, before I could murmur a half-hearted exclamation of thanksgiving for the silence, she looked at her chinky little cellular telephone and said, happily:

"Oh, it's Felicity!"

The question was begging to be asked; I struggled with it for a moment, stifling my traitorous curiousity—and yet it still came out, in the form of a dry:

"Who?"

"My sister," she said, smiling and rather absent-looking. "She lives a bit away—out of Metro City. I-I told her about you, and she'd love to meet you."

Instantly I was up in arms; the whole thing sounded suspiciously "story-book" for my tastes. Meeting Gwendolyn's family would only further point out the fact that we were something more than friendly.

"Absolutely not."

She looked as if she wasn't surprised; raising her eyebrows and smiling as one might smile at a stubborn child, she said:

"Why not, Bernard?"

"I don't meet people, Sharp. Least of all your undoubtedly unbearable siblings."

"Oh, come now, Felicity's lovely. You'll—well, you probably won't like her, but I dare say you'll be able to tolerate her quite nicely! And I'll make it worth your while, I promise."

"I doubt that, somehow."

"Doubt it all you like, Bernard, I shall. And if you don't go, I'll invent some sappy nickname for you, and use it on a daily basis."

At this I clenched, mortified in advance. The very last thing I needed was the chit affirming—in public, no less—that we were, as my colleagues, put it, "a thing". Not that we were, of course. Only in Sharp's twisted and utterly feminine mind.

"Bluffing is a foolish practice, Gwendolyn."

Her smile became a smirk, and her eyes were almost dangerous.

"Oh, you think I'm bluffing, hey? Would you like to test that little theory?"

No, I most definitely did not; keeping my face blankly unimpressed, I murmured:

"Not particularly."

"Good. Then you'll come?"

Damn it; she had me cornered, as I'd rather suspected she would. In reply, I merely shrugged; she beamed.

"Super! This Sunday, then; she really has been looking forward to meeting you."

"I'm sure."

And so I said little more for the remainder of her visit.

-88888—

Accordingly, that Sunday I reluctantly departed from the sanctuary of my apartment and drove to the same dreadful coffee shop wherein I typically purchased my lunch; the sister of Sharp had decided to meet there, as her home was "shamefully messy", and, consequently, "not viewable by human eyes". As I dragged myself out of my jalopy, I caught sight of Sharp herself, standing by the door as if waiting for me. I raised an eyebrow, and she immediately bounced over to meet me.

"Bernard! There you are! Wait a moment, I want to tell you something."

"I quiver with anticipation."

"Good," she said lightly, rolling her eyes. "Now, look, Bernard, I'm serious; my wee niece is in there, and she's very shy and all that; she practically quivers under sarcasm. So for heaven's sake, be nice to her; be as rude and snarky as you like to me, but just be polite to her."

I shrugged, not particularly interested in the feelings or emotional welfare of Gwendolyn Sharp's probably irritating niece. If she was anything like her aunt she'd be a far greater threat to me than vice versa.

"Good boy," she said, that sunshiny grin coming back. "Now, come on, they're waiting."

And so, for reasons I had not yet quite deduced, I allowed Gwendolyn Sharp to lead me into the shop to see her family.

Felicity Abramson (she was married), though about ten years older, I judged, looked a good deal like her sister, as far as mere physical description went; there was the same reddish hair, the same pale complexion, the same expressive mouth. However, she was, I discerned immediately, a good deal tamer than her impetuous chit of a sister; with her there was substantially less fire, less obstinacy. She was more tranquil, and rather meeker—a quality she seemed to have passed on to her exceedingly uninteresting daughter, the timid niece. Upon seeing me, Sharp's sister smiled, and came forward to shake my hand; I simply stared at her, waiting for her to drop it. After a moment, she did so, looking flustered and uncertain.

"Er, hello," she said, giving Gwendolyn a meaningful look even as she smiled at me. "You er—you must be Bernard. It's a pleasure."

"I doubt that somehow," I said coolly, hoping Sharp hadn't tried to paint me as some sort of misunderstood, kind-hearted introvert who simply needed a little "TLC". I despised sentimentality—and in any case I was double determined to prove there was nothing between Sharp and myself.

"Oh," she said, and laughed nervously; again, her eyes sought Gwendolyn's, and she moved protectively as if to hide from view a small girl of perhaps 11, sitting on the sofa and staring at me with enormous blue eyes. The niece, I presumed; I raised an eyebrow at her, and she hastily looked away. Stupid little thing.

"Yes, this is Bernard," said Sharp, slipping an arm around my waist; I stiffened, per usual, at the contact, and tried to move away, but her arm only tightened, forcing me to stay perfectly still. Silently, I hoped she burned in the pits of Hades. "He's a little prickly, Fels; he takes a bit of getting used to."

"Oh," murmured Felicity, taking a seat near her daughter. "I-I see. Well, Gwen, how have you been faring in old er—Metrocity?"

Gwendolyn laughed, and sat just across from her sibling, pulling out a chair for me as well; sighing, I took it, and hoped the whole damn thing would be over soon.

"So you've been listening to the news lately, eh? Yeah, they've tried telling Megamind it's Metro City, but he won't listen. He's a bit daft."

I considered telling the ignorant Sharp that, mindboggling attraction to the tiresome Ritchi girl aside, Megamind was far from daft—in fact, he was arguably one of the most brilliant individuals ever to grace Metro City with his azure presence—but decided against it; explaining something of that nature to such a girl as Gwendolyn was a lost battle. Women.

"And oh, it's been great," continued Gwendolyn, that cursed arm still somehow around my waist. "I really am enjoying it, though the pay isn't what it should be. "

"What about you, Bernard?" inquired Felicity politely, although obviously a little squeamish about addressing Gwendolyn's boorish friend. "How do you like Metro City?"

I didn't even look at her as I replied, flatly:

"It serves as a dwelling."

This seemed to dry up her conversational flow; nodding, she turned to Gwendolyn and said quickly:

"Er—Gwen, come with me and help me order something, you know I'm no good with coffee."

Smirking just a little, Sharp obliged, and within a moment I was left alone with the cowering niece, a titchy piece of work with unkempt dark hair. She eyed me apprehensively through the chinks of said hair, as if waiting for me to strike; I returned her gaze indifferently, wondering if the girl was mute by some strange happening. I rather hoped she was.

But then she spoke, in a quavering voice which was the antithesis of her aunt's.

"A-are you going to be my uncle someday?"

I nearly choked at the loathsome idea; what on earth had that minx been telling her relations?

"I highly doubt that," I said, after a moment. "Count your blessings."

She nodded, and slowly the fear seemed to leave her, and she became thoughtful, regarding me with quiet, contemplative eyes. Strange child.

"Aunt Gwen said I shouldn't be afraid of you," she said, quietly. "She said you weren't so bad as you seemed."

"How touching," I replied, even as inwardly I felt strangely pleased by the thought that Sharp didn't think me "so bad".

"Aunt Gwen really likes you," the suddenly animate brat continued, under the impression that I cared. "She says you have more heart than you let on."

Well, Sharp had really been laying it on this time. More heart, indeed. Suddenly, I wondered whether she had actually related any of the…recent events…to her family; my neck began to burn at the thought, and I looked away. Impossible. Not even Sharp would be so indiscreet…

"Do you like Aunt Gwen?" pressed the child, in that odd, hesitant manner of hers. I struggled briefly with myself over that one before deciding on the standard.

"No."

She frowned; no doubt the chit adored the ground her frustrating aunt trod upon.

"Why not?"

"I see no reason why I should," I said dryly. This quenched her burst of loquacity, and she nodded, retreating back into her curtain of hair, evidently recalling that she was terrified of me.

At that moment, Sharp and her sister returned, the latter clutching a Styrofoam cup; suddenly shooting me a smile which boded no good, the forward Sharp disdained her chair and, instead, settled on my lap. My posture immediately improved remarkably; I could see my look of shock mirrored on the face of the open-mouthed Felicity, as well as the countenance of the Nameless Niece.

"Hallo again, Bernard," the minx said gaily, turning to smirk at me; I could feel the warmth of her body permeating through my slacks, and suddenly felt the need to swallow hard…

"So, are you two er—are you two dating?" asked the bemused Felicity, her eyes going from my startled expression to Sharp's undeniably smug one. I did my best, under the circumstances, (her hair was swinging into my face, which rather muddled me) to disabuse her of this absurdity.

"No," I said, before Gwendolyn could open her troublesome mouth. "Definitely not."

"Oh?" she murmured, and she seemed rather puzzled. "That's odd—I thought—"

But what she thought, I didn't find out; Gwendolyn's hand stole onto my leg, and she lightly began to knead my thigh; I just barely kept back a soft moan…

"Told you I'd make it worth your while, didn't I?" she murmured in my ear, as her sister said something presumably boring to the niece, who seemed doomed to remain without a name.

I did not trust myself to reply.

At last, after nearly an hour of chatter between Sharp and the sister—very little of which I heard, unfortunately; Gwendolyn's hand assiduously stroked my leg throughout the whole thing—I was liberated—and yet I found myself inexplicably reluctant to get up, much less leave…

Gwendolyn slowly got off of my lap, making sure to trail her fingertips carelessly along my leg, and smiled at me like a pleased sprite before sweeping down to kiss her bashful niece goodbye—I'd been right; judging from their conversations over the duration of the last hour, the silly girl venerated her impossible aunt—and then, on the latter's signal, speaking quietly to her sister. As I made to leave, I caught snatches of their conversation.

"Gwen, he's just unpleasant!"

"He's wonderful, though, Fels, really. He just takes getting used to."

"So I see. Is he really the man you've been telling me about? The one you're so er—taken with?"

Sharp had the grace to blush; I, meanwhile, froze where I stood and processed this strange—yet somehow pleasing—information. Gwendolyn had been telling her family about me—and apparently about how…taken…she was with me. The thought was peculiar; it nearly made me smile, right there in front of everyone. Fortunately, the niece unwittingly provided a much-needed distraction.

"Goodbye, Uncle Bernard," she said, still quavering. I just looked at her, stunned at her audacity. Tasteless little snippet. The mother hastened to interfere.

"Uh, Marianne, sweetheart, Mr. Bernard isn't your uncle. He and Aunt Gwen are just—friends."

My objections to the gross exaggeration of her term was cut short by Gwendolyn's (whose cheeks were a brilliant rose, I noted with a smirk) forcedly light:

"Oh, that's alright, Marianne, I'm sure you were just being familiar. Keep it up; he needs it."

The child just nodded, and looked away; I doubted she'd meant anything of the sort.

"Well, I'll see you later, Gwen, I really enjoyed it! So did the little one, of course; make sure to come see us whenever you can! Good luck in Metro City! And er…it was um, nice to meet you, Bernard."

"Likewise, I'm sure," I mumbled, eager now to go home and return to my solitude. What a thoroughly wasted hour.

….My thoughts went to Gwendolyn stroking my leg, and I was suddenly tempted to amend my former statement….

Just as the sister and child left, I heard the latter say to the former:

"Mum, Aunt Gwen wants that man to be my Uncle Bernard, doesn't she?"

With a little sigh, Felicity replied, as if she feared as much:

"I think she does, dear. Aunt Gwen was always a little strange."

"Well," said the brat, sounding rather resigned. "I guess—I guess he will be. Aunt Gwen's pretty good at getting what she wants."

And so they departed, leaving me startled and more than ever determined to prove the irksome child wrong.


	15. The Brief History of Bernard

She detained me for just a moment after they had gone.

"Wait a moment," she said softly, taking my hand in hers. Her fingers laced with my startled ones, and, instinctively, I let them; the feeling was peculiar, but not—unpleasant.

"Yes?" I said quietly, not quite as dryly as I would have liked.

She smiled at me, and her thumb lightly stroked over the back of my hand; again, I stiffened reflexively, but that reaction was soon lost, and only the odd, breathless feeling remained…

"I just wanted to say thanks, Bernard," she told me, getting very close and pressing her mouth to the spot just below my ear. "For not scarring Marianne for life."

"She wasn't worth the effort," I muttered, as the place where her lips had been burned very, very hot. Gwendolyn laughed, and said, squeezing my hand:

"I'm going to pretend that was a 'No problem, Gwen, I adored your niece.' Okay, Uncle Bernard?"

I immediately grimaced; the very last thing I wanted to be was anybody's uncle. Deciding to nip this little "nickname" in the bud, I told her as much; she just smirked and replied:

"Well, like it or not, I think you have a bit of a fan, Bernard. She seemed a little—taken—with you."

"Oh, God."

-888888—

"Bernard, tomorrow's the opening of a new exhibit. You know the drill."

The Hemmings harpy swept by without even a glance to be sure I'd comprehended her message; not bothering to nod, I sighed and prepared for another night of ceaseless paperwork, cleaning, etc. God, I hated my job. Yet, it was the best prospect I had; unless I wanted to be filing books in a library or—I shuddered—waiting on idiots at a restaurant, I was stuck here. Beside me, Gwendolyn—who was, of course, on the rail, chatting blithely—looked from Kate's retreating figure to me, and then back. She semmed puzzled; sensing another round of unwanted questions, I steeled myself and waited. I was not waiting for long.

"Are you just going to take that?"

"Sharp, what have I told you about using ambiguous pronouns and the like?"

But she was not to be sidetracked.

"You know what I mean, dammit! Are you going to let that bitch push you around like that?"

I saw no use in replying; correctly interpreting my silence, she cried:

"Bernard, really! She's making your life hell! You have to stand up to her!"

"Of course, Why didn't I think of that."

"I'm serious, you know. If you keep letting her do this, you'll spend your whole life under her thumb! Just tell her 'go to hell'; it seems to come easy enough to you."

"The phrase 'mind your own business' springs to mind, Sharp."

She flushed, and I saw the flash start up in her eyes; before she could let loose a rather amusing bout of fury, however, she collected herself, and, swallowing, said in a strained voice:

"You're so pleasant, Bernard."

I shrugged.

"It's a gift."

"Yes, I've noticed. Now, look here, if you don't tell that—that bitch what for **I **will, and I know you don't want that to happen."

For once, she was right; the thought of Sharp, with her misguided want to "do right", trying to speak in my defense—against _Kate_¸ for God's sake—was absolutely mortifying. I'd never live down being the nancy boy whose—I was caught between a thrill and a shudder—_lady _had to stick up for him. No, I would vanquish Hemmings on my own.

"That's what I thought," murmured Gwen smugly, and then the unpredictable wench drew close to me and slipped her hands into my hair, while I had a slight spasm, turning stiff as a board and then stuttering for a moment as the warmth of her fingers skittered along my scalp.

"What the hell are you doing?"

As if her absurd actions were completely normal, Gwendolyn replied, easily:

"You have very untidy hair. I'm trying to see if it's so messy from a lack of brushing."

My God; truly she had no shame. With no discernible change of expression—it was rather difficult, considering the circumstances—I murmured:

"What's your verdict?"

"Well," (her fingers lightly ran through it, sending a shock along my spine) "I'm inclined to think it's naturally untidy."

Impatient for the whole, unsettling experience to be over, and annoyed with the heat trailing along my head and down my neck, I replied:

"Are you really wasting my time with this?"

She laughed, and said, cheekily:

"Nah. I just like to wig you out a bit, Bernard. And guess what?"

"What?"

Gwendolyn's pinkish mouth twisted into what was definitely a smirk, and she brought the hand in my hair down to stroke my cheek which, I realized too late, was blazing hot.

"It worked."

-88888—

The next day, she finally got around to asking the question I desperately hated.

"So, Bernard, tell me a bit about yourself. You know, your life—your adult life, if you like—in Metro City and all that."

I heaved a massive, weary sigh; God, I hated answering this. It was sickening enough to think of, let alone discourse about. Keeping it brief, I murmured:

"I was born. I went to school. I graduated. I went to work in this museum. I was dehydrated and compressed into a small cube by Megamind. He went around making use of my body. I was eventually rehydrated. I went back to work. I met you. The story gets worse and worse."

She was so startled she didn't even catch the derogatory comment towards the end; with enormous eyes, she whispered:

"Megamind _dehydrated_ you? For how long?"

"A few months, I guess," I said tonelessly, shrugging. "I was kept in the pocket of his absurd footie pajamas. I was forced to listen to his inane, melodramatic monologues about the loveliness of _Roxanne_" (she made a strange face) "and the hopelessness of their love—and, of course, his own sheer brilliance—as he lay awake at night."

"A few months? God almighty! How'd you finally get er—rehydrated?"

"The washing machine."

"Really? How has this never come up in conversation before?"

"Sheer luck. I don't care to discuss it if I don't have to."

"Wait a minute." There was something in her eyes which looked a good deal like laughter; immediately suspicious—Sharp's laughter was troublesome—I just waited as she went on:

"You say Megamind 'made use' of your body. Did he make use of it while dating Roxanne?"

I shuddered at the thought; I'd tried to block that particular image as long as possible.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Then—did he—did he—you know—go the whole hog with Roxanne—as _you_?"

God, I hoped not. Even if it hadn't really been _me_, even if I'd actually been in a cube the entire damned time, the thought of Megamind, the blue villain I'd admired throughout my life, _bedding_ the insufferable Roxanne Ritchi, and using my body to do so, was simply unbearable.

"I don't know. I never asked."

Of course, ridiculous chit that she was, Sharp snickered and said:

"You should have. I, for one, would have liked to know."

"Nosy women usually do."

Sharp only rolled her eyes; I had a feeling she was somewhat accustomed to my nastiness by now.

"Don't be sour, Bernard. I'm not so bad, am I? Am I really that horrible?"

Here was my chance, if ever there was one, to really drive the arrow home…to give a cool, dry, thoroughly unapologetic affirmative and show her I was not to be softened. Perhaps this would aid me, also, in my quest to rid myself of these—_feelings_…

But Sharp, it seemed, was not about to play by the rules; with a wicked little grin, she leant in and whispered, as her fingers tiptoed up my neck, sending the most disarming prickles of electricity all along my body:

"I'm not _really_ that bad, am I, Bernard?"

I tried my hardest to think of something—anything—to say, but even a simple "yes" was, at the moment, quite beyond my capabilities.

And then, before I could even begin to formulate coherent thought, she pulled away, and stared at me, flushed but grinning triumphsntly as I did my best to collect myself. Shameless little chit.

"I think you like me after all," she said, breezily, as if the scattering of my concentration and the unwarranted seduction of my person were of no moment. "Even if just a little. Even if you don't say so."

"Presumption is the mother of delusion, Sharp."

"And excessive sarcasm is often a sign of denial, Bernard."

My only reply to this absurd assumption was a derisive lifting of the eyebrows, and the inward resolution to take the Sharp girl down a peg; she was entirely too observant for her own good.


	16. Self Imposed Misery

_AN: Hey, sorry this took so long, I've been busy with my fictionpress account, and haven't had time. Anyway, hope you enjoy, and for the love of God, please review. _

_Also, to VastDifferemce: It will come, but it'll be a while; I think he'd explode if it happened at this stage of the game. xD_

I realized, over the next few days, that, despite the promises I'd made to myself to rid myself of these feelings for the Sharp minx, I'd done very little to actually carry them out—as it was, I'd melted, like a blithering idiot, every single time under Sharp's shameless ministrations. Well now, I decided, would be the time to bring my plans to fruitions. Now would be the time to at last be free of Gwendolyn Sharp.

I found, in review of my past failures, that my problem lay in the fact that I _had been too passive._ I had shown mere indifference to her existence…perhaps, for someone like Sharp, it would take actual loathing for her to finally process the message. In which case, she would grow weary of my incessant rudeness, leave, and I, losing all respect for her—and any feeling whatsoever—would continue as I was before, unbothered and safe in my solitary existence. All I had to do was show absolute hatred for Sharp.

That wouldn't be too hard to do.

-88888—

I started the very next day. She popped in, as she usually did, to say hello, and to chat inanely for a good hour about this, that, and the other. Usually, I would shrug in my most disdainful manner, and return to my work, and that would be that—but today, recalling my resolution, I shot her a look of deepest disgust and said, coldly:

"What do you want?"

Even Sharp wasn't utterly so oblivious as to not see that this was a substantial downgrade for her; raising her eyebrows, one hand went to her hips as she retorted:

"What do you think I want? Surely by now you know I have no interest in this museum."

"Surely by now _you_ know your presence is not welcome here. Ever."

Unfazed, the damn little minx gave me a queer, searching look, almost as if _concerned _for me—of all the absurd and unreasonable things—and replied, the eyebrows rapidly ascending:

"My word, what on earth happened to you? You're downright hostile."

Having no reply to this (clearly "I'm trying to drive you away because I have an uncontrollable attraction towards you" was not a good idea), I shrugged and said absolutely nothing, turning away. Let her find out for herself if she was so concerned.

She persisted.

"Bernard, are you alright?"

I kept my silence, not wanting to be goaded into saying anything revealing. It seemed to be happening more and more often of late.

"Bernard, really—please tell me. Is something going on? What's wrong?"

"What makes you think you have a right to know anything of my personal life?" I asked, not even looking at her now; the emotions flitting across her face were rather distracting.

"I'm your friend," she said simply, one hand going to my shoulder. "Remember? We've been knowing each other for a good while now. I should think I have some sort of standing with you."

I shrugged again, keeping my face cool and hard and blank.

"Mistaken as always."

This hurt her; I could tell from her indrawn breath, and the quality of her silence—and, for a moment, I wished I hadn't done it. It was curious, this feeling of—_regret_, this desire to amend my tactlessness…but it was also fleeting. I soon enough remembered what was at stake; if I did not banish her soon, she would destroy the solitude I'd worked so hard to establish.

"You're an ass," she said, bravely trying to cover the hurt with indignation.

"Then why are you still here?"

She stood there for a moment, frozen, undecided—and then, to my cool elation, she nodded rather jerkily and walked off, leaving me quite alone. I had triumphed.

And yet, for a bare moment, I wished I hadn't done it.

She came back the next day, however, easy and laughing and apparently not even remembering the woes of the day before. I had only a moment to marvel at the elasticity of the female sex before bringing on my second attack.

"I thought I made myself clear yesterday, Sharp."

"Guess you didn't," she said airily, and took her customary seat on the rails, legs swinging to and fro like a blithe child's. I sighed in sheer irritation and turned away.

"Why must you linger in places where you are not wanted?"

"Am I not wanted?" she inquired, her tone one of mock surprise. "Really? How queer; I thought you adored my company, Bernard."

"Delusion is a common ailment among females," I murmured, eyes on my work. Sharp was proving a tougher nut to crack than I had thought.

"Well, deluded or not, you certainly seemed to enjoy _one_ aspect of it," shot Gwendolyn with that characteristic cheekiness. I clenched my hands, willing myself repeatedly not to blush…not to blush…

"In fact," continued Gwendolyn, a little smirk creeping into her voice now. "I was under the impression that, though you may not enjoy my company _here_, you rather desired it in…_other_ places…"

This was a low blow; sucking in a harsh breath, I said through my teeth:

"Lust is cheap, Sharp. And it passes quickly. Don't mistake it for anything else."

"Is that all it was?" she asked, and all of her teasing was gone now. "Was it just lust, Bernard?"

I was lying, and I knew it—but, hopefully, if this went through, it wouldn't be a lie for much longer.

"One and the same."

And, for the second time in two days, Gwendolyn Sharp left without so much as a goodbye.

-88888—

I continued this routine for a good five days or so, until it became a dismal, and yet satisfying pattern; Sharp would arrive, I would be nasty, she would make a retort, I would do the same, and this would go on until she'd had enough and left. Yet, no matter how angrily she stormed off, no matter how sure I was that I'd been victorious and would surely never see her again, she always returned the next day, newly cheerful and quite ready to extend the olive branch, if need be—not that I took such a figurative gift, of course. I was exceedingly aggravated with her—why could she not accept when she was beaten? Why could she not leave me be? At last, on the sixth day, my façade of stony, implacable dislike broke down, and, as I saw her approaching, smiling as if it were an enormous pleasure to see me, I finally demanded:

"Why do you keep returning?"

At this abrupt greeting, the expressive Sharp brows made their characteristic ascent, and she replied, cocking her head:

"I beg your pardon? Are you expecting me to disappear?"

Clenching my teeth, I made no reply; not picking up on this hint to terminate the discussion—when had she ever done so?—Sharp went on:

"Really, I should hope you know me better by now. Why wouldn't I be back? You think a little uncalled-for rudeness is going to scare me off?"

I let out my breath very, very slowly, keeping my gaze steadily on the wall; she was unbelievable. Truly her obstinacy knew no bounds.

"Bernard, I dunno if you've picked up on this yet, but uh—I love you," Gwendolyn told me, her tone bordering on wry amusement.

"I love you, and there is nothing—absolutely nothing, do you understand?—that you can do about it. So you can be snarky and cruel all you like, I don't intend to go anywhere."

My feelings were, at that moment, beyond description; I was torn halfway between a sort of warm pleasure and an instinctive irritation at her tenacity.

"I see. How touching."

"Besides," she went on, smiling at me a tad impishly and pointedly ignoring my rudeness. "I have a feeling I'll get you to like me a little at some point. So I'm staying in the ring."

And, so saying, she stood on tiptoe and kissed me quickly just beneath the ear, seemingly oblivious to the hitch in my breathing. Damn it…

As she skipped away that afternoon, I made a grim resolution. Gwendolyn may have triumphed temporarily, but I was not spent yet. I would, by some means, rid myself of her, and—oh, pleasurable thought—perhaps convince her along the way that she wasn't nearly so right as she thought she was.

your document here...


	17. A Sudden Lapse of Self Control

_AN: Hello! This is a short one, but hell, it was fun to write, and I feel like, after all Bernard's self-imposed misery, it's a bit of relief. More's coming soon. Okay, thanks soooo much to all my reviewers so far; I told you you'd get a shout out and here it is. J __**Thanks to radio-ga-ga, Vast Difference, MythScavenger, Aperio, Massively Minute, Guest, Guest, Silver Tortoise, Ceu Praca, xLuvStruckIdiot, the chosen one, chickie-killer-doll626, Guest, Rachel, Guest, Guest, shivaun18, falsebillyidol, and Terra Young for their lovely reviews! You guys make my day, really and truly! If I've forgotten anyone, forgive me, and I hope you all enjoy it! **_

From there on, things only got worse.

_"Hello, Bernard."_

_The Sharp Child smiled at me as she slipped into my bedroom, closing the door to my apartment carefully behind her. I sat up and cautiously groped for my glasses._

_"Sh-Sharp?"_

_"The very same," she said, and came a little closer, eventually coming to sit at the foot of my bed. Startled and somewhat disoriented, I asked, a little dazedly:_

_"Wh-what are you doing here?"_

_Gwendolyn laughed softly, and shrugged; I swallowed._

_"This and that."_

_And, without another word, she took my hand in hers and placed it at her waist. I straightened, my hands tightening instinctively._

_"What the hell are you—"_

_"You know what I'm doing," she said, smiling again. "Or, you should know, anyway."_

_Nodding, I leant in, deciding to take advantage of this inane situation while it lasted—and kissed Gwendolyn Sharp square on the mouth. She gasped slightly, as if unprepared for the impact, but very quickly mastered her shock, as her hands tangled into my hair, and she pulled me closer…_

_The next thing I knew, she was leaning back, and I was leaning forward, and then we were both lying on the bed, while her hands slipped beneath my shirt…_

_And then my hands were doing the same to her, and she was suddenly wearing absolutely nothing…and I woke up._

-88888—

The next time I saw her, I was resolved again to be cool, distant, perhaps even downright rude—and yet I didn't really have a chance. Just as Gwendolyn approached, and I had prepared my most scathing salutation, Kate Hemmings also came by, and stopped at the sight of me, her favorite prey. I sighed, and steeled myself for the inevitable, hoping Sharp would hold her tongue, for God's sake.

"Well, Bernard, so this is the lovely lady, is it? Is she a sexless freak of nature, as well?"

"Go back to your brandy, Kate."

Per usual, this hit a nerve, and two garish spots of color appeared on her cheeks; coldly now, she said:

"Watch it, Bernard. Unprofessional remarks like that can get you fired very quickly."

I just raised an eyebrow.

"When you find somebody else who's willing to run this God-forsaken museum, I'll take that into consideration."

Her lip curled.

"I admit, I may not be able to find someone as…dedicated…as you are, Bernard. Most people _do_ have lives apart from work, you see, so its rather unfortunate. They have people to go home to: wives, girlfriends, etc. Not all of us can afford to remain frigid virgins."

For a moment, my teeth clenched, and I was sorely tempted to hit her—but, as it always did, it passed, and I recalled that Kate Hemmings was a waste of my valuable time. Just as I was about to shrug and make a cool retort, however, Gwendolyn, who had been bristling the entire time beside me, spoke up. Oh, God.

"I wouldn't make remarks like that," she said, in a tone that was barely kept under control. "Particularly since they aren't true."

Oh, my God. Kate's sternly tweezed eyebrows climbed heavily up her forehead as she said, with the beginnings of a smirk:

"Oh, really? It's not true? What falsehoods has Bernard been feeding you?"

"Falsehoods? Oh, he hasn't been _telling_ me anything," murmured Gwendolyn, casting down her eyes and giving a slight, rather coy half smile which I had not known her capable of. "Bernard prefers to teach by—_example_."

Both Kate Hemmings and myself jerked directly upward in a manner reminiscent of a convulsion; silently, I debeated upon whether to kill her slowly and methodically, or whether to reward her forevermore for the expression on Kate's face.

"He—what?" Hemmings choked, staring at me as if expecting me to give her an example as well. I repressed a shudder at the thought. Gwendolyn shrugged.

"He's quite the teacher," she said nonchalantly, as if this were all perfectly natural. "He hides it so well, doesn't he?"

But Kate Hemmings never replied as to whether or not I hid it well; she was walking hurriedly off in the other direction, still looking exceedingly shaken. I, for my part, just stared at Gwendolyn, who was both shaking with silent laughter and regarding me apprehensively, as if awaiting my strike.

As she should. My God.

What came out of my mouth next was completely involuntary.

"I love you," I said quietly, still blinking and dazed.

There were several moments of silence; she gaped at me.

"Y-you what?"

By now having recovered my faculties, and now quite appalled at what my shock had forced from my mouth, I shook my head and said, as dryly as I could:

"Don't make me say it again."

"Wait—really?" whispered Gwendolyn, with that same ecstatic, awestruck look in her face—the one I'd seen right after she'd kissed me. "Bernard, you—you do?"

"Sharp, what have I told you about repetition?"

She ignored this.

"Yes!" she cried, and wrapped both arms around my waist, pulling me into what was perhaps the tightest, most disorienting hug I'd ever received. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to hear that," she said softly, into my shirt.

I said nothing—but, where nobody saw, I grinned into her hair.

-888888—

I gave up on the impossible task of stopping the smile that was creeping onto my face as I worked, and, as I checked over another exhibit, I distinctly heard one little boy say to his mother as they passed:

"Mom, look! The grouchy man's smilin' today."

His mother, now rather startled herself, peeked in what she thought was a discreet manner over her shoulder; not wanting to have my reputation sullied, I quickly buried my face in a book.

The mother gave a slight, disappointed sigh.

"Are you sure? It must have been a trick of the light, dear."

"It wasn't!" insisted the observant little brat as they went on. "He was smilin'—a happy smile."

Oh, good God; if that ever got around my status as "absurdly unapproachable" would forever be gone. Damn children these days.

They left, and I continued about my work—and, when I saw sticky, child-sized fingerprints on one of the new exhibits, I hardly cared.


	18. From the Mouths of Babes

_AN: Hello, and thanks to everyone who alerted or reviewed! You have no idea how much that means! Also, to Nette: I haven't looked up the song yet, but I shall, and will let you know by next chapter, promise. Sounds good, though. :) So, er...please, please, please review, and that's about it. Enjoy!_

When I got home, I allowed the truth to sink in.

God, was I in for it now.

I had told Sharp—Gwendolyn Sharp, the singular most stubborn, irritating woman this world had to offer—that I—that I—I was too appalled to even repeat myself. It was insupportable. The worst part was, there was no going back, I was all exposed now—completely vulnerable. She knew she affected me. There was no telling what dreadful things would take place in consequence of my—indiscretion.

_Why_ had I told her that? What had possessed me to say such an absurd, conventional, ridiculously cliché phrase as "I love you"? It had been merely the shock, merely the satisfaction of seeing Kate Hemmings staring at me, utterly startled…

I had told her I loved her—yet surely this wasn't so. I didn't love her; I despised the chit. And yet it would seem I was stuck with her—I had, after all, uttered the fateful "L" word. The word itself was a veritable chain around my ankle. There was no being rid of her now.

And then, for some reason, I smiled.

"Yes," I thought, "there _is_ balm in Gilead after all."

-88888—

It was Sunday, that weekly day of blissful, lonely rest, when the phone rang. I scowled.

Human interaction. Damn.

"Hello."

"Hallo, hallo, Bernard!"

I should have known. Who else would call on a Sunday.

"Sharp, how did you get my number?"

She laughed.

"Well, if you must know, I went through a complicated, deductive process and stalked your life on the internet, undergoing multiple expenses and often going without food because of my overwhelming desire to stalk. After many nights of staring at my screen, I alas managed to crack the last code and had the poor, broken computer reveal your number. Oh, that and it was on the website for the museum, stupid."

I fought a twitching, obstinate smile; curse her flippancy.

"How surprising. Gwendolyn Sharp resorting to the internet for personal information. Well, stalking aside, what is it you want, Gwendolyn?"

"I? Oh, well, nothing much, Bernard—"

"Then I'm hanging up," I said decisively, already about to lay the phone down. Immediately her voice increased dramatically in volume.

"_You will do no such thing_,_ Bernard Grahame. _I have a reason for calling!"

"Well, then, save yourself the stroke and say it. What do you want?"

"I called to see if you can er—do me a favor," said Gwendolyn, sounding faintly nervous now. I raised an eyebrow; this didn't sound promising.

"I doubt it. I don't do favors."

"Yes, but you'll do it for me—won't you?" she said pleadingly, a faintly coaxing tone in her voice. I could hardly believe my ears. Was she seriously going to try and wheedle me?

"Why should I?"

"Because you're a good person," said Gwendolyn, as if that settled it. I snorted.

"Don't count on it."

"Well, then, because, if you do this for me, I'll be _sooo_ good tomorrow when I visit you, Bernard, I swear!"

"I doubt that somehow."

"I will, I really will!" she cried, earnestly enough. "C'mon, Bernard, hear me out."

I sighed, and gave in; my implacable "no" would only be slightly delayed. No harm done.

"You have 2 minutes. Go."

"Bernard, my sister is going out with her husband, and I'm gonna be working, and everyone else is busy tomorrow, and she really needs someone, and—will you please, please, _please_ babysit my niece tomorrow night?"

For a minute, I was startled; surely she jested. As if I were a babysitter, by any stretch of the word. Sharp had apparently taken something rather potent to even entertain the possibility.

"No."

"Oh, c'mon, Bernard! Fels really needs somebody, and it won't be so bad, really! She's very quiet, and well-behaved, she won't give you any trouble."

"I'm sure she's an angel," I deadpanned, immovably. "I'm still not doing it, Sharp."

"Bernard, really, this would mean a lot! And I'll be really good the next time I visit! I won't say a word if you'd rather I didn't."

"I've been 'rathering' that since we met, Gwendolyn," I retorted, still determined not to give in and take in the odious Niece for a night

"Well, it'll be a dream come true then, because if you do this I'll be wholly silent, the whole time I'm there! All you have to do is watch Marianne for perhaps an hour or two. It'll be easy."

"Sharp, since when are 'easy' and 'torment' the same word?"

"Oh, come on, you'll enjoy it, I promise. And just think of it: a whole day without me bugging you."

The offer, I had to admit, was tempting; for a moment, I sat there, thinking it over, wondering whether I was truly going to accept this insanity…

With typical Sharp-ish audacity, she took my silence for an assent.

"Excellent! I knew you'd do it for me! Thanks so much, Bernard, you're so wonderful! I have to go, I love you, Bernard! Bye!"

And she hung up, whilst I stared at the phone in a state of mild shock, trying to muster up some genuine irritation.

"Dammit, Sharp."

-888888—

Irritation was easy enough to come by the next day, however, when Gwendolyn came to my apartment at 5:40 that night, her hand firmly clasped in that of her small relative, who was staring up at me with something akin to absolute terror.

"Alright, Mari, Mum'll back in about an hour and a half, alright?" said Sharp bracingly, smiling at the child in a way that could only be called reassuring.

As well she might. The brat was going to need it by the time the night was over—and so would I.

"O-okay, then," quavered the little thing, smiling shakily. "Thanks, Aunt Gwen. I love you."

"Love you, too, sweetheart," murmured Gwendolyn, kissing her on the top of the head. "Be good, and don't be afraid of Uncle Bernard," (I grimaced) "he's not really so bad once you get to know him."

The Niece snuck a look at me, as I stood by the door staring at them expressionlessly, and looked utterly unconvinced.

"Now, then," said Sharp in a more businesslike voice, getting up and coming towards me. "To the more difficult charge. You had best behave yourself, Bernard. Be nice to Marianne, and for heaven's sake keep the snark to yourself. If I hear you've mistreated her," in a lower voice, leading me inside now, "the consequences may be dire/"

My eyebrows made a most disdainful ascent.

"I'm trembling. What consequences await?"

Suddenly smirking, she said "Consequences like this" and wrapped her arms around my neck, kissing me quite…enthusiastically, and not at all bothered when I, startled beyond my reserve, returned her kiss with equal enthusiasm.

Pulling back after a moment, she smiled at my dazed self, trilled "Bye, Bernard!" and, kissing her niece once more, hurried out. The moment her car disappeared around the corner, the Niece, before now frozen and staring after her, turned slowly towards me, big eyes going carefully over me. I returned her gaze with emotionless equanimity.

"Let's get a few things straight," I told her. "If you call me Uncle Bernard, you won't live to suffer the consequences. Also, I don't like children. Keep that in mind and we'll be fine."

She nodded, and, scurrying past me, took a trembling seat on my sofa.

There were a few moments of blessed silence; I picked up a book.

"Uncle—I mean, Mr. Bernard?"

Well, that was slightly better. Damn Sharp and her deals and wheedling.

"What?"

"Aunt Gwen says you like people more than you let on. Is that true, Mr. Bernard?"

Oh, for God's sake. Sharp had really been letting her imagination run wild.

"No."

Another silence reigned as she digested this startling contradiction of her revered aunt's words; I returned to my book. But, like her aunt, she was a persistent one.

"Are you dating Aunt Gwen?"

At the dreaded "d" word my head snapped up, and the book fell onto my lap. Oh, God.

"_No._"

"But you like her, don't you?" persisted Little Sharp, losing some of that timidity which had, henceforth, been so useful.

"Not particularly."

"But you do like her," said the brat, quite calmly. "I know you do."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, do you?"

"Yes," she explained, in a very matter-of-fact tone. "I saw you kissing her a few minutes ago."

The book fell to the floor as I started involuntarily, my "I don't give a damn" façade quite blasted into smithereens. She had seen—she had seen Gwendolyn's assault upon me…and my—rather encouraging response. Little brat.

"You mean you saw your aunt attack me," I corrected her, picking up the book and hiding my burning face in it.

"But you kissed her back, Mr. Bernard," the impudent chit pointed out. "Usually if you kiss someone back, you like them, right?"

I had no reply to this, and, shrugging, turned the page of my book, without comprehending anything I read…

"Are you going to marry Aunt Gwen?"

I nearly choked on air; where the hell was she getting this?

"I'm not so depressed as that, kid."

"Oh."

The chit sat and thought this over hard for a moment; finally, after pondering it duly, she pronounced, as if much in awe of her own daring:

"Well—I think you should. Or, if you don't, you ought to date her at least. You and Aunt Gwen are very—well…." (she considered her words for a few minutes) "you _work_."

And, recalling that she was terrified of me, she hid behind her hair again…and I sat, stunned, thinking her words over and cursing Gwendolyn Sharp with everything within me.


	19. Another Loss in the Battle of Wills

_AN: Hello! Well, here we are, one chapter awway from 20...to be honest, I never thought it would go this far. Well, anyway, thanks, thanks, thanks to every single person who alerted or reviewed! Also, a note to Vast Difference: that scene you requested several times before...I have written it, and it will come in due time. Helluva lotta fun, if I do say so meself. Anyway, to the person (I believe it was Nette) who requested I look up that song...I did, and I definitely see it! Certain parts of it fit quite well! Well, thanks again, and please, please review!_

_PS. I dunno if this is rude, I hope it's not, but if someone could make me a cover I'd appreciate it so, so much! Just a suggestion._

Twenty minutes later, the loathsome niece spoke again.

"Mr. Bernard?"

I sighed; would I never have any peace?

"What?"

"Will you play a game with me?"

"I don't play games."

She returned my gaze quite steadily as she persisted:

"Aunt Gwen taught me how to play chess. Will you play chess with me?"

Laying down the book which I saw I'd never get a chance to read, I considered her childish request.

The very last thing I wanted to do was play chess with an 11 year old…however, it would most probably not last too long, and it would keep her prying mind off of my relationship with her aunt…

It would seem that today was just not my day.

"Fine," I said, dragging myself out of the chair and going to retrieve the battered old chessboard from the closet. "But don't talk to me while we're playing."

"Okay, Mr. Bernard."

"Well, how was it?"

Gwendolyn Sharp sailed into my apartment—without knocking, of course—and beamed at both her niece, who was bent intently over the chessboard, and myself, who was much in the same attitude, watching and planning my next move. Neither of us replied.

Abruptly, the littlest minx beamed.

"Checkmate, Mr. Bernard."

Startled, I checked the board; the chit was right. She had won.

I had just been beaten at chess by an eleven year old. And I'd thought the day had been bad before.

"I told you not to speak to me during the game."

Gwendolyn, who had stood there and watched the proceedings with grinning interest, laughed from her place by the door.

"I didn't know you liked chess, Bernard."

I shrugged in reply; smirking now, she continued:

"Maybe you and I can have a friendly game once in a while, hm?"

I tried to imagine it; a friendly game of chess with Sharp. It wasn't an altogether unpleasant picture.

"I sincerely hope not."

Then, recalling that her sister ought to be the one gathering the niece, and that, as it was only 7:28, Sharp ought to be at work, I inquired:

"Sharp, why are you here? I was under the impression your sibling was to come."

"Oh, that's what I was going to tell you," she said gaily, taking a seat on the floor beside the niece. "Fels and her husband are caught in traffic, and, ah, since they didn't want to er—indispose you, they wanted to know if I could take the night off and watch over the little one till they get back. It'll only be about another 40 minutes. So, here I am to collect what's mine," smiling at her bothersome relative, who returned the smile with far more certainty than she ever employed with me. I only shrugged again, as if to say it was little to me what she and her charge did, and cleared off the chess board. Hesitantly, the niece spoke.

"You're good at chess, Mr. Bernard."

Was that sarcasm? Looking her over, I decided at length it was not; she was staring at me with childish frankness, the mane of hair pushed out of her way.

"I should be," I said simply. "I've been playing it a long time."

"Can we play again sometime, Mr. Bernard?"

I was shocked for a moment, and just looked at her, eyebrows climbing higher and higher—my God, the child was truly a descendant of Gwendolyn's. Forward little brat.

And yet, I would rather enjoy redeeming myself with a sweeping win…surely tonight had been beginner's luck…

I moved one shoulder indifferently up and down.

"Perhaps."

-888888—

True to her word, Gwendolyn Sharp came in that next day without saying a word, and, in utter silence, sat on the rail, swinging her legs and regarding me gravely, apparently deep in thought. Nodding at her, I went on with my work, trying to shake off the feeling that something wasn't quite right. Do what I would, however, the feeling persisted, and at last I said, somewhat exasperated:

"You may as well talk. I know you want to."

She simply grinned, and replied:

"Knew you kinda liked my chatter."

I grunted a very noncommittal reply and turned away; unbothered by my lack of civility, she continued:

"So, Bernard, did you have a nice time sitting Marianne?"

"No."

"Oh, didn't you?" she said, and I could hear the laughter in her voice. "Are you sure? She told me about the er—interrogation she gave you."

"Yes, that. A lack of taste must run in the family."

She laughed.

"Don't be sour, Bernard. She says you were quite red in the face for some of it. She also said you told her you didn't like me. Now, that's funny, Bernard," coming up behind me and putting her arms around my waist. "I rather thought you liked me quite a bit."

I didn't reply; I only shrugged and tried to disentangle her grasp from about me. She, with typical Sharp-ish tenacity, continued:

"Well, in any case, you have a fan, Bernard Grahame. I foresee many games of chess in your future."

As she spoke, she slipped a hand under my shirt, and let it lightly stroke my abdomen for just a moment…I nearly doubled over in a combination of shock and…something else.

"Sharp, if you can't behave in public you won't be allowed on the premises."

In my ear, she laughed quietly and breathed:

"Well, report me, why don't you?"

Before I could even begin to muster a response, she was gone, and I could hear her laughter as she scampered off.

-88888—

I soon found that the magnitude of that insufferable Marianne's questions was worse than I'd realized; they seem to have inspired Gwendolyn. The very next day, as it happened, she proposed her utterly fatuous idea.

"Bernard?"

I sighed; there was a nagging, ominous voice in the back of my head that was telling me I was going to regret answering.

Yet, for some reason, I did.

"What?"

"Well, I was wondering—"

"I wish you wouldn't."

"Very funny," she retorted, not seeming too bothered by my rudeness. I daresay she was rather accustomed to it by now. "I was wondering if—if—aw, what the hell? I'll just say it. I was wondering if you and I could er—do something, sometime, soon."

Immediately I scented danger; this seemed suspiciously "committed" to me.

The fact remained, however, that it was a rather pleasing idea…

"Sharp, I don't date."

"I know you don't, this doesn't have to er, be a date, per se."

Both eyebrows went up, and I stared at her until she blushed scarlet.

"Per se?"

"Look, I just want to meet with you somewhere outside of this museum. Call it what you like."

It still sounded very much like a date, yet some foolish instinct in me prompted me to ask:

"And where would we go, pray tell?"

"Hell, I don't care, Bernard! Anywhere! You don't really seem like a 'movie' sort of person, I must say."

She was right there; I wasn't. The whole concept of sitting in a dark, overcrowded room with a bunch of brainless, impressionable idiots watching a cut and dried Hollywood production made me rather nauseous, in fact.

"I'm not."

"Well, where would you go, then?"

"I don't recall ever having agreed to this excursion, Sharp."

"You're right," she admitted, in a very candid, innocent tone which I immediately distrusted. "You haven't. The whole thing is completely hypothetical, of course. So, Bernard, hypothetically, where would you go?"

Cautiously, not trusting her in the least, I murmured:

"Allowing the absurd possibility that I would do such a thing, a bookstore."

She smirked.

"How did I know? Well, what would you say if we went to a bookstore for an hour or so?"

"You know what I'd say: no."

"But what if I told you I'd do you a favor—whatever you liked—if you did this for me? Really, Bernard, for you it's a win win; I have a sneaking suspicion, and I think you do, too, that you're going to enjoy yourself."

"Don't presume, Sharp."

Gwendolyn laughed, and then sighed, and finally said, in her most coaxing tone:

"Look, it'll be just for an hour, then you can go home and hate the world, _and_ you can think of something utterly humiliating for me to do. What do you say? Do we have a deal?"

I considered it; if I did this, she'd do whatever I asked…the idea of, even just once, subduing the fiery Sharp had its appeal, I couldn't deny it. And, if the stupid thing went over badly, I could exact whatever revenge I chose.

It would only be an hour, after all…

I shrugged, washing my hands of the matter.

"Fine. One hour. Wow me."

Again, she beamed as if I had brightened her entire day…

"I knew you'd come 'round! Thanks, Bernard!"

And then she left, leaving me to wonder what on earth had possessed me to do something stupid like that.


	20. The Torture of ConventionPart 1

_AN: Hi, and welcome to Chapter 20! Mercy, I must say I love writing this thing...hope you like reading it. Anyway, I have a cover, and it is a lovely one-my eternal gratitude to the superb Myth Scavenger for making it! Thanks so much! Well, I'll say it now; I broke their "date" up into 2 chapters, so here's the first bit. Not too happy with how it turned out, but...sigh...ya can't win em all. Oh, yes, and a shout out to any and everyone who reviewed; it means the world to me. _

_One last thing. To MaybeaWriter: Wow. Ten reviews, back to back? Nice!_

She turned up on my doorstep that Sunday; I sighed deeply.

The whole day was going down the drain already.

I opened the door, and she grinned at me, throwing her arms around my waist. I stood very straight, cursing the way my hands were hesitantly settling on her back, grudgingly returning the embrace.

"Hey, Bernard! You ready?"

"Not really."

"Sure you are," she said easily, grabbing my hand. I looked down at her in faint alarm; holding hands was not included in the bargain. God, I had a reputation to uphold.

Sharp, either oblivious to my consternation or just a spectacular pretender, squeezed my fingers lightly—I sighed and resigned myself to my mortifying fate—and we left.

-88888—

The drive was surprisingly silent; Gwendolyn, for once in her life, said very little, and just smiled out the window—I was driving—while I, occasionally, pondered what it was that so occupied her.

No doubt that, knowing Sharp, it was something extraordinarily stupid.

At last, she spoke.

"Bernard?"

Damn. Good things never seemed to last.

"What?"

"Did anyone ever tell you—your hair almost defies gravity?"

I normally didn't acknowledge stupidity like this—but that particular comment was so overwhelmingly stupid that I couldn't help but look at her.

"No. I only talk to intelligent people."

She laughed, just as if this were all light-hearted banter instead of an utterly humor-free questioning of her intelligence.

"I suppose you're going to say that I'm the exception," she said lightly, smiling and laying a hand on my arm as if it were nothing. I stiffened, and caught my breath…

"You're learning every day."

"Sourpuss," she said lightly, and, without asking my permission, traced her fingers up my arm, running the back of her hand, just for a moment, along my neck…

"Bernard, you're veering into the other lane."

I started, and, checking the road, saw that the shameless hussy was in fact correct; irritated with myself, I murmured:

"Much obliged, I'm sure."

"It was a pleasure," she said solemnly, though I could hear the laughter in her voice. "Isn't that the bookstore right there, Bernard?"

It was, but I was extremely loath to admit to the little chit that she was right; to solve the problem, I mumbled, tonelessly:

"It might be."

"It is," she said brightly. "Come on then…our date begins."

I sighed.

"It's not a date."

But I had a horrible, sneaking suspicion that it was.

-88888—

It was strange, but somehow she even managed to ruin the bookstore.

"So, Bernard," she said, leaning up against a shelf full of Historical Non-Fiction. "Do you still plan to work for the museum?"

Her questions seemed to get more inane as the time went by.

"Yes."

"Well, what are you going to do about Kate, do you think?"

I shifted a shoulder carelessly; her eyes narrowed, and she bit her lip.

"Bernard, really, you can't let her treat you like that! You have just as much right as anyone else to be treated with respect at your workplace!"

"The world doesn't listen to rights, Sharp."

Frustrated now, angry with the world for not being green and fair, as she thought it should be, she stamped her foot and insisted:

"Dammit, well it should! You should talk to her—she has no right to do that to you. Especcially for such a stupid reason as hers."

I, in the act of flipping disinterestedly through a book comparing the psyche of Hitler with that of Mussolini, raised an eyebrow, perfectly skeptical.

"What do you mean by that, Sharp?"

She threw me a knowing look which was exceedingly annoying.

"You must know, by now—God, Bernard, for someone so smart you can be rather dense."

"Sharp, if you can't learn to speak clearly I'll have to ask you not to speak at all."

"And why would I listen?" she countered, smiling just the littlest bit. "But anyway, Bernard, really, don't you know she's absolutely furious with you?"

I sighed; per usual, her babble made little sense.

"I'm not a woman. I don't know feelings."

"Evidently," she shot, and then bit her lip, looking as if she wished she hadn't said that. "Sorry. That came out wrong. But I mean it, Bernard, she's absolutely livid. I went and er—chatted with another employee about her—"

Before I could stop myself, I said, not quite so coolly as I would have liked:

"You chatted with another employee?"

She blushed, and I found myself instantly suspicious. What had the chit been doing with my all-too-friendly, perfectly commonplace peers?

"Yes, I did. They were a bit more er—receptive to my efforts than you. Anyway, I talked to one of them, and—"

"Was this 'someone' a male?"

Startled, she replied:

"Well—yes, he was. His name was Anthony. Why?"

I scowled and said nothing, not about to reply and give her something to smirk about. As if she didn't have enough already. A little bewildered, she continued:

"Well, er, like I said, I talked to Anthony, and it seems that Kate had sort of a nasty past. Bad childhood, all that. She has a problem connecting with people, she has a problem being liked—and, from what I see, she's been projecting her anger onto you, because she sees you as being the same way. People are cruel like that. But now, now that you've got—that is, now that you and I are—um—friendly, she's—well, she's jealous, Bernard. You were her one target, the one person she saw as being as bad off as she—and now you've got a friend. You can see how that would drive someone crazy."

For a few minutes, I stood there, book still in hand, thinking it over. That was actually—that was rather a feasible theory. And it would explain why I was her favorite prey, and had been since we'd met…

Not that I was going to admit that to Gwendolyn, of course.

"So you and Anthony have a common interest in stalking, I see."

"Oh, for God's sake! Don't start with that again. No, Anthony is _not_ a stalker, it would seem that Miss Hemmings' life story is a popular topic for gossip. You'd just rather not admit I might be right."

"It's not high on my to-do list, I'll admit."

Ignoring me—a good sign that I'd floored her in one respect, at least—she went on:

"Well, now that you know her feelings, let's return to the problem at hand. What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to do my job and go home. It's worked before."

Sharp was not amused.

"Don't be an ass, Bernard. I know it's a strange concept for you. I'll drop the subject for now, but don't think this is over. I think it's ridiculous how she gets away with that."

"Many things in this world are ridiculous, Sharp; very few of them are subject to change."

It was her turn now to shrug, and, without reply, to take my hand firmly in hers, as if we did-that sort of thing—all the time…

"You're quite red, Bernard, are you alright?"

That was her, of course, smiling up at me with a mixture of archness and concern; murmuring "Dandy" I turned away and hoped she'd let it be.

How exceedingly stupid of me.

"You sure?" she persisted, and smirked a little as my tell-tale color deepened. It was absurd that something as appallingly simple as holding her hand would do this to me…

I decided to speak at this point would only serve to embarrass me—so I kept silent. Gwendolyn Sharp followed suit for once—what a joyful day indeed—and just linked her fingers more steadily through mine.

"Having fun, yet?" she said lightly, after a moment. I rolled my eyes.

"Fifteen of your sixty minutes are gone, Sharp."

Having suspected as much—she was learning—, she nodded, and I was somewhat alarmed to see that that impish—_something_ was back in her eyes.

Shit.

"Oh, I'm not worried," she told me, arch and confident once more. "After all, I've only just begun."

And, with this somewhat frightening statement, she pulled me deeper into the bowels of the shop.


	21. The Torture of Convention part 2

_AN: Hello, and thanks a million bunches to everyone who reviewed or alerted this story, you guys are what keep me writing it! Sorry this took so long, school started and time has not been my friend of late. Anyway, many thanks, please, please review, and I hope you enjoy!_

The very first thing the stupid girl did was kiss me, as soon as we were a reasonable distance away from anyone else. I had been leaning against a shelf, looking with a mild interest through a biography of Calvin Cooldige, of whom I rather approved, when she, the shameless little chit, immediately approached and leaned in, pressing her impudent mouth to my own and pretending she didn't hear my rather stammered:

"Come back for the kill, Sharp?"

Within a second the poor biography had tumbled to the floor with a thump, and I was aware that my hands were hovering uselessly in midair, unsure of what to do or where to go…

Slowly, hesitantly, I found her back, her waist, and again forgot any and everything, shivering when her tongue lightly touched the curve of my mouth…

Kissing me harder, she let her fingers creep up my neck, slowly settling into my hair as my grip on her tightened convulsively. When she broke away, I heard myself groan very softly, almost in disappointment…

For a good minute I stood there, dazed and not quite coherent even in my thoughts, oblivious to the rest of the world. Gwendolyn pressed a finger quickly to my mouth, and I noted vaguely that she was grinning enormously, saying something I didn't quite catch.

"Hm?" I murmured, in the back of my mind disgusted with how dreamy my voice sounded.

"You have lip gloss on your mouth, Bernard. Not to say it doesn't become you, but I thought you should know."

I did? Startled and slowly becoming mortified, I tried my best to remain stoic, mumbling:

"Your attack was uncalled for, Sharp."

"You didn't seem to think so two minutes ago," she countered, and there was a look in her eyes I didn't care for; it was too knowing, almost, too certain.

I blushed then, and blushed hard, heat racing up my neck and spreading over my face up to my hairline, a tell-tale sign that she was—just barely—not wrong.

I assumed the most dour expression I could muster and, desperately, said:

"Women."

Gwendolyn emitted a sigh that was strikingly similar to my own—trust Sharp to resort to something as asinine as mimicry—and intoned, in what I saw was supposed to be my voice:

"Bernards."

I _almost_ smiled at this; the imitation was somewhat true to life. Somewhat. However, I stopped myself just in time; Gwendolyn Sharp had extracted from me many strange and horrifying things, but as of yet I still retained my basic dignity.

If I started laughing at her jokes it would truly all be over.

_888888—

A little later, she said the most interesting and intelligent thing I believe I'd ever heard come from her mouth.

"So, tell me about Megamind."

At last, a subject worthy of discourse—a topic on which I could actually wax somewhat poetic. As a force of habit, however, not wanting to show my interest just yet, I sighed and said:

"He's a blue End."

She shoved me lightly, shaking her head and staring up at me.

"No, come on, I know you like him, tell me about him. What do you know about him?"

What did I know about Megamind? I could hardly believe my ears. Only an entire miserable childhood and adolescence's worth of sometimes obsessive reading over the subject which was, besides history, my pet: aliens. When Megamind had really made himself known, the subject had only become specified, concentrated more on the individual rather than the relatively unknown race. What did I know about Megamind, indeed.

Thus provoked, I proceeded to tell Sharp exactly what I knew about Megamind, not sparing any details, and letting loose a barrage of specifics, both biological and psychological, concerning the azure dictator-turned-benevolent one.

About ten minutes into it, I realized that Sharp, rather than copying down every word of this valuable information, as any reasonable being would have done, was gaping at me, mouth slightly open and eyes wide, almost incredulous. Abruptly rather self conscious—and ashamed of this weakness within me—I murmured:

"What?"

"Bernard," she said softly, astounded. "Y-you—you _care_."

As most of her inane statements were, this was utter gibberish to me.

"Sharp, you're not making sense; it seems a chronic condition with you."

She didn't even seem to hear me.

"You looked—you looked so—_interested_," she said, starting to smile now. "Passionate. I've never really seen you like that."

I was suddenly rather embarrassed, as if she'd caught me in some dangerous or compromising position; I was Bernard Grahame, surly museum curator and notorious loner. I wasn't supposed to be passionate.

"Don't get used to it."

"Oh, the guard's back up, I see," she said, smiling a little wistfully now. "Shame. Guess I won't be hearing about Megamind anymore."

"I wouldn't count on it," I told her, concentrating on the shelf before me. Nodding, she kept silent for a moment, and then, as if struck with an idea, proposed in one of her abrupt subject changes:

"Hey—you want a quick chess game once we leave?"

The idea of trouncing the undoubtedly inept Sharp at a game of chess and leaving her thoroughly humiliated was very, very appetizing…at last, I was almost certain to be the victor…and, least of all, the conversation during the game—for someone like Sharp was never silent—would be…interesting….

"Fine."

_88888—

True to my inference, Sharp was no master at chess; she took the whole thing rather more lightly than I did—she did not understand that it was a serious game of strategy—and seemed a bit preoccupied at times.

"Good God," she murmured blankly, checking the board after I'd easily been the victor. "Did you just win?"

"I believe so."

"Ah—I'm worse at chess than I thought. Marianne's got a natural talent for it—I don't. You're lucky I played fair, though, Bernard; I could have easily cheated and made my odds much more favorable."

What on earth was the stupid girl talking about? Raising my eyebrows, I murmured:

"Cheated? How?"

She grinned, as if very glad I'd asked.

"Like this."

And then suddenly her hand was on my knee under the table, and she was kneading my leg lightly, grinning at the way my breath hitched and I had to swallow hard to keep back a small groan…

"I dunno about you, but I think this would have heightened my chances considerably, eh, Bernard?"

I didn't reply, only mumbled something about her being "fast" and tried to relax, and banish the sensation of her hand on my leg. She grinned and put the pieces back in their original spots.

"Another game, Bernard?"

_88888—

Two games later—both of which I won, of course, by a considerable breadth—she smirked and checked her watch.

"Hey, Bernard," she said airily, as again the pieces were reset. "Guess what?"

"I can't, I'm sure."

"Well, you know how today was only supposed to be for an hour?"

With a vague feeling of foreboding within me, I nodded, not sure I wanted to hear the rest. Sure enough, Gwendolyn checked her watch once more, as if re-checking, and told me, a tad smugly:

"Well, it's been two. Guess it wasn't so unbearable as you thought, hey, Bernard?"

The thing I wanted most of all at that moment was to take that absurd grin off of her face, that crowing "I was right; you enjoyed yourself" expression, and I knew nothing I could say would do the job, so I took a more—dangerous route. Without really thinking, just acting on instinct, I leant in, raised an eyebrow—and kissed her.

And, sure enough, it was an effective method indeed.


	22. Puzzling Victories

_AN: Hello, so, so sorry about the wait! Like I said: school has kept me horrendously busy. Anyway, I wrote this in little bits whenever I had both time and inclination, so here you are. Reviews are absolutely wonderful, and I will again thank with utmost sincerity anyone who left one. :) Also: many, many thanks to shivaun18, for her very kind author's note on the top of chapter 15 of her brilliant fic, Overshadowed. I dunno how I missed that before. Anyway, enjoy!_

She approached me the very next day.

"So, what horrendous deed do you have planned for me?" she said by way of a greeting as she swung onto the rail. I, betraying nothing, decided to keep the chit in suspense and shrugged.

"You'll see."

"I tremble in anticipation," she quipped smilingly, as usual quite unaware that she was too old to be perched on museum property like some elfish brat.

"You should. It would do you good," I told her, honestly enough. She ought to quake in fear, the little minx; it wasn't right for someone to be so cavalier and light hearted all the time.

Per usual, my wisdom was wasted on Sharp.

"I don't doubt it," she murmured rather absently now, and I felt her eyes on me. Immediately I was wary; what was she doing? Experience had made me cautious of a thoughtful Gwendolyn.

"I do like your hair tremendously," she said, after a moment. The heat rushed to my face, and I blinked, startled.

That—that was a—compliment. And one devoid of sarcasm, too…

Interesting.

But entirely too personal—a typical Sharpism.

"I'm ecstatic to hear it," I returned dryly, and went into my boxy little office to do some paperwork. Of course, she followed, as she always did, now taking a seat atop the desk.

"So, c'mon, then, don't make me beg; what do I have to do to pay for my noisome misdeed?"

For a moment, I considered saying that such a thing was nearly impossible—her offenses were too great—but, deciding that this would be the quickest way to silence her, I instead mumbled:

"Fine. Just leave me alone. You have to answer my questions with complete honesty for the remainder of the week."

"I do answer honestly," she retorted, though a slight look of something akin to panic was crossing her face as it dawned on her what I might ask. I smirked; vengeance was sweet.

"Not completely," I said, quite cooly. "I mean all facades have to be down, Sharp."

"What facades?" she inquired, though even from the corner of my eye I could see the heat rising to her cheeks.

"You tell me," I murmured, completely uninterested and deriving a vindictive pleasure from the discomfort on her face.

"What in hell made you to decide to do something like that?" she asked, still burning crimson.

"You enjoy—disconcerting me," I told her, eyes on my paperwork even as my mouth twitched. "I think I should have the same pleasure once in a while."

"Should I be afraid?" she teased, and though her tone was flippant I could see she didn't like the idea of being 100% honest about any question I might choose.

Her uppance had come.

In my most deadpan voice, I simply looked up at her and said, carelessly:

"I would be."

-88888-

The next two weeks were a curious assortment of what Sharp, being a strange and—oh, God—rather romantic female, called "stepping stones", and what I called "unnecessary happenings". There was, for instance, the unnecessary happening wherein I was somehow coerced into a _second_ outing with the odious girl, this one in the nearby coffee shop…the unnecessary happening wherein I was somehow disoriented enough to repeat the 3 word statement I'd made just after she'd scarred Kate Hemmings forevermore…the wholly unnecessary happening wherein she, at the aforementioned outing, leaned against me, settling her head on my shoulder…the wholly unnecessary effect of this happening, which lead to my arm winding slowly around her shoulders without my consent, and clumsily pulling her in….

Yet, amidst all these unfortunate events, there were, here and there, a few victories, mostly stemming from her bind to honesty…

"I'm not answering that."

Gwendolyn Sharp was red as the proverbial beet, and had her eyes firmly on the book she'd brought with her; sensing an approaching victory, I drawled:

"We made a deal, Sharp."

"I don't care! That's an abuse of my naivete and innocence!"

I snorted; whatever else she was, Sharp was not an innocent sort of chit.

"Right. Now answer the question."

"No way! You'll—you'll laugh at me if I do."

I quirked an eyebrow, secretly enjoying the color in her face. It was rare to see the ever-amused Sharp so flustered.

"Don't worry; I don't laugh."

"You do—you must," she said, momentarily confident in her abilities again. "Everyone laughs."

"Everyone but me."

"Well, you'll laugh at this, I guess," she murmured, more to herself. Then, turning to me, she demanded:

"Why the deuce are you asking me something like this anyway? Who in their right minds would answer?"

"I did."

At the memory of this, Sharp blushed deeper—and then smiled—and then shook her hair out of her face and faced me, steeling herself.

"That's right; I almost forgot about that. Well—it's—it's only fair, I guess."

"Then answer the question; have you thought about it?"

And here Gwendolyn exhibited the first sign of modesty I'd seen from her yet, and cast down her eyes, swallowing. The sight was—somewhat enjoyable, I had to admit. For a moment, the notion flashed through my brain that it would be—something to make her blush more often…but at the horrid implications of such a thought I immediately shook myself and banished the idea.

Meanwhile Sharp was still stalling, going redder by the minute.

"Well—if you must know—yes," she finally said, through her teeth. "Once or twice. Haven't you?"

"I don't believe I'm bound to honesty, Sharp."

"So you admit you have?" she demanded immediately, quite desperate to shift the topic away from her answer.

Damn her way of reading between the lines.

"I never said that."

"You never said you didn't," she pointed out, smiling despite her blush. Quickly, I replied, half-honestly:

"Well—idly, yes. With different people."

Amazingly, she didn't catch my lie; instead she bit her lip, and her eyes dropped, and the flush burned deeper for a moment.

"Different people?" she murmured, still not looking at me.

"A few."

She said nothing now, and I had a few moments of rare good fortune; then, abruptly bright and smiling again, she changed the subject, leaving me bewildered.

There seemed to be no understanding her.

-88888—

The next time I saw her she looked—strange; there was a reddish tinge to her eyes, and her nose was pink at the tip. Looking up for a moment from some meaningless paperwork, I queried:

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," she said, in a somewhat choked voice. "I'm fine."

But even as she spoke her eyes dampened, and next thing I knew she was biting her lip hard, gaze fixed on her shoes.

"Oh, God."

She looked furious with herself suddenly, and turned to hurry out when I found myself stopping.

"Gwendolyn."

Sharp froze in her tracks, and then slowly revolved one hundred and eighty degrees to face me, face at once tear stained and defiant, daring me to belittle her weakness.

Somehow, I didn't have the heart.

"What?" she said, coolly. "What do you want?"

I didn't exactly know what I wanted; shrugging, I got up and approached her, half appalled with myself for being so—concerned, and half pleased with the idea of…consoling her….

Yet when I was but a few inches away, my boldness fled, and I was left standing there, staring at her and now wishing myself back behind the safety of the desk.

Frustrating little snippet; why couldn't she behave like an average woman, the type that interested me not at all? Why did she always have to puzzle me?

Finally, I decided to simply be direct.

"Sharp, why are you crying?"

"What do you care?" she mumbled, still defiant.

Her questions were becoming increasingly difficult to answer honestly these days.

Without a properly indifferent reply, I shrugged again and, somewhat agitated, ran a hand through my hair, shaking my head. At last, I took another approach, and took a seat on the narrow, hard little sofa in my office.

"Sharp, sit down."

She obliged, for once, and sat beside me, knee pressing against mine; I considered pulling away, but something about the whole experience was pleasant, so I decided against it…

The situation just got worse and worse.

I had no experience with crying women; truth be told, they alarmed me. Strong emotions in general tended to make me a little cautious. But the sight of Gwendolyn crying was worse, somehow; I was, in a sense, affected by it, not to mention somewhat blown away. Sharp and sadness were antonymous in my view.

"Do you—er—do you—need—anything?" I said after a minute, sounding wretchedly awkward. She shook her head, eyes on her lap.

"No, I-I'm fine. Really. Thanks, Bernard. You um—well, thanks."

I had no reply, and anything I might have contemplated saying was lost when, almost hesitantly, she put her head on my shoulder. A pause, while I considered the best way to handle the situation—and then my arm abruptly took a mind of its own and slipped around her back, keeping her secure.

"Are you alright?" I said, as coolly as I could. She nodded, and I could feel the heat spread over her cheeks again. What the hell was she flushing about now?

"Yeah, I'm great. Sorry—being stupid."

Had it been any other time, I would have perhaps responded along the lines of "Yes, you were"—but as it was I kept silent, not believing her in the least but not sure how to get the truth from her.

"The paperwork was getting old anyway."

Gwendolyn gave a soft, rather damp-sounding laugh—and then without any warning she stiffened, and pulled away; to my mortification, I found my arm unwound from her rather reluctantly.

"I-I need to go," she said, standing up and taking a deep breath. "Thanks, Bernard—you—that was sweet, what you did. I need to go home and—think for a while."

And, without even her typical gay "Bye, Bernard!" she walked quickly out, leaving me startled, and somehow disappointed in her wake.


	23. Puzzling Effects of Said Victories

_AN: Hello! I'm trying to be a little more prompt today than I have been recently...so, here you are, chapter 23. Again, as always, dozens of thanks for every single wonderful review or alert, I'm exceedingly grateful. Oh, and it seems there was a little confusion over the question-i apologize for that. I read it over once it was posted and there was indeed a lack of clarity. I tried to clear that up in this one. Well, here it is, and I must say, it is rather a talky chapter. Sorry about that. Well, enjoy!_

I went home that night puzzled, not sure what to make of the events of the afternoon. Sharp, despite her dozens of faults, was not one inclined to tears, thank God—there had to be some kind of cause.

And it was highly unlike her to not talk me half deaf whenever she came to visit….something was wrong with the chit, and I wasn't sure, at the moment, whether or not I wanted to know.

At last, I dismissed Sharp and her infuriating mood swings, and went to bed; knowing her, it would probably resolve itself.

-88888—

Elmer came promptly at six the next morning; we exchanged our typical salutation, and he scuttled in, cleaning in that dispirited way of his. Deciding to take a gamble, I engaged him, as he made my bed, in conversation.

"Elmer?"

He was, understandably, shocked at this bizarre turn of events; never, in all of our history, had I once spoken an extraneous word to him. Our relationship was one of both necessity and habit.

"Yes, Mr. Bernard, sir?"

"What do you think of me?"

I don't what forced the absurd question out of my mouth, but nevertheless it came; Elmer ceased to work, and cocked his capped head thoughtfully, looking me over.

"Well, Mr. Bernard, sir," he said at last, with an air of calm, and yet satisfied philosophy, "I think you need to get laid, sir."

My mouth nearly fell open; of all of the things I had imagined coming from the subservient, almost Heep-like Elmer, this had not been one of them.

Apparently this had been brewing for a long time.

"Oh, really?" I replied, after I had sufficiently gathered my wits. "You think so?"

"I think it would do you some good, Mr. Bernard, sir," continued the uncharacteristically bold little man, still with that utter tranquility of expression. "You're a little uptight, sir."

He was almost begging for me to dock his pay.

"And who, pray, would I 'get laid' with?" I drawled, unable to believe the audacity of the man. Sharp-itis seemed to be catching.

"Miss Gwendolyn might appreciate it, sir," ventured the appalling cleaning man, as if we were discussing history or the weather. "I think she really does like you, Mr. Bernard, sir—one doesn't come by people like that very often, sir."

No, one didn't—and God be thanked for that. One Gwendolyn Sharp was enough for the world to handle.

"I'll be sure to mention that to her," I muttered. "While you're pouring forth all your worldly wisdom, Elmer, tell me this: why would an absurd thing like Gwendolyn be crying?"

This seemed to confuse the now serene employee; staring meditatively at the ceiling, he said, at last:

"Well, I'm not sure, Mr. Bernard, sir. Women like Miss Gwendolyn are a little unusual, sir. But women, I think, when they cry, need to be talked to about it. Comforted."

"How would one do that, I wonder?" I murmured, half in derision of his air of wisdom, half thinking aloud. Ignoring my sarcasm, Elmer said solemnly:

"Well, sir, you could always hold them, sir."

An alarming image confronted me; Gwendolyn Sharp, wet and pinkish around the eyes and nose, sitting on my lap with her face buried in my chest and her arms tight around my neck. The thought of it actually made me a little dizzy.

_I-I could—couldn't I?_

Flushing and abruptly ashamed of myself for such a notion, I shook my head and immediately did my best to end the conversation.

"And why would I want to do that?"

Instead of being silenced, as should have happened, he stared at me for a moment, and said, still very calmly, very contemplatively:

"You know that better than I do, Mr. Bernard, sir."

And, tipping his hat, he commenced in his cleaning before I could dock at least half of his pay.

-88888—

She did not come and see me the next day.

It was a very productive day, as it happened—or, at least, it should have been. There was no reason why it wouldn't be. Yet I just couldn't seem to get into the grind; I found myself, at times, staring at the door to my office, waiting for her to sweep in, impudently perching on my desk and chattering blithely to me while I worked. Somehow, even her distractions would have been helpful.

It was frustrating, really, to be dependent on her, to even feel her absence, and I was in a more sour temper than usual when I left work that evening—at a decent time, as it happened; ever since Sharp's absurd story of my teaching abilities Kate had left me alone—and returned to my grimy apartment, plagued by an accountable feeling of—emptiness, somehow…

It took three more days of Sharp's absence for me to realize that I was actually lonely without her.

-88888—

Four days of Sharp-free employment later, I found myself unable to look at another exhibit, or skim over another pointless piece of paperwork; setting a stack aside, I tried idly to interest myself in a book entitled _The Mega Mind of Megamind_ and hoped, in the very back of my mind, that the door would open and in would dance Gwendolyn Sharp, irreverent and laughing off my incivilities.

God, I was pathetic; I was _missing_ the Sharp chit. The game was truly over.

"Gwendolyn," I mumbled, before I could stop myself. "Hm…"

"Whacha thinking about, Bernard?"

Kate Hemmings swept in, hair sternly done up and cool gray eyes taking in my somewhat disordered office at a glance. I stiffened.

"What do you want, Kate?"

"I heard something that sounded like a sentimental sigh as I passed through here, Bernard, and I wanted to see if it was you or whether there was a mooning teenage boy in here I didn't know about. Neither would surprise me, come to think about it."

"Kate, it's a good thing being a bitter old maid becomes you; most people can't carry it off."

And here Kate Hemmings really surprised me; instead of firing off one of her typical, unimaginatively cruel retorts, she sat down by my desk and let out a sigh of her own.

"Bernard," she said, after a moment of staring at her mannish white hands. "I came in to tell you something, and I may as well do it now before I hate you too much to utter it. I don't want to say this, but—I'm sorry."

Of all the things I'd imagined Hemmings would say, those two simple words were not one of them. Nonplussed, I murmured:

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," she said, still in that cool, brisk voice, as if ordering me to pull an all-nighter again. "I've been—well, to be frank, I've been a bitch to you ever since you started working here. I guess you've figured out why."

"I was made aware of the reason, I think."

"Yeah, I figured," she said, and her thin, straight mouth became thinner and straighter. "I guess you know I envy you like nobody's damn business."

I said nothing, a part of me unwilling to believe this conversation was actually taking place.

Not waiting for me to formulate a reply (which was fortunate, as we might have been waiting a long time), Kate went on, in that hard, flat tone which indicated she just wanted to be done with the whole thing:

"When I was young, I was like you, I think; my parents didn't care, my mother couldn't be bothered with me, my father was disappointed in having a daughter that wasn't pretty. I went to school, and I did well, and they still didn't care—so I tried to do even better, to make them care. I tried so hard I never had time for any relationships in school, or out of it. Boys didn't want me; girls didn't like me. I was plain, and rude, and hard to talk to, and what's more, I beat the damn lot of them in class. They really couldn't stand that. I got a master's degree, studied a lot of history, and came to work here—and by then, I didn't care about my family, and they didn't care about me. And I saw you, and I saw myself in you, in a sense—antisocial, unwilling to even be civil, tired of people. Unpopular. Well, I hated that—I hated seeing that reflection of myself, I wanted to make you feel as bad as I felt all through life—and I guess I did, to some extent. I certainly deprived you of considerable sleep. But, somehow, it felt _good_ to do that to you—to convince myself that you were lower than I was, that I could be superior to you."

At this point in her monologue she sighed again, and smiled a thin, flat smile, before continuing:

"And then you met _her_."

She spoke of Gwendolyn with almost a grimace of distaste; evidently, something still rankled.

"It was clear to me that she was dead gone on you, Bernard—even before I was walking around the museum and found you two kissing like there was no tomorrow. And I saw that, dour virgin though you are, you were getting soft on her, too. Don't deny it, Bernard," as I opened my mouth to protest this undignified description of my supposed feelings. "You know you love her."

Not quite sure how to respond, I shrugged, and kept my face impassive, inwardly blushing at the thought of the Hemmings woman seeing my—loss of control—with Gwendolyn…

"I hated it. I hated the thought that you, my one target, was getting what I've wanted my entire life and never gotten—love. And, what was worse, you didn't even seem to want it; you didn't change for her, you never tried to keep her. You acted like an asshole to her—and she kept coming back. It was sickening.

And then my worst fears were confirmed; that little thing of yours basically told me you and she were being intimate. You have no idea how much I hated you at that moment; another one of my wants, and you seemed to be suddenly getting it without effort. Yet now there wasn't anything I could hold over your head—so I backed off at that point, partly because my material was wearing thin and partly because I hated seeing her take your part. And ever since I've been hating the world, and you especially—but I decided today that I am done. I don't like you, and I doubt you'll ever like me, but I got it all out, and now I'm going to go do something with myself. I'm sick and tired of envy."

And, without another word, or even a look at me, she got up and made to leave—stunned, I said, tonelessly:

"Kate."

She turned, and again the steely eyes were on me, awaiting with cool defiance whatever response I gave to her confession.

What I said next was somewhat involuntary; it came out before I could check it, or phrase it correctly.

"Sharp and I aren't" (I made heavy, sarcastic air quotes) " 'friends with benefits'. Rest easy."

Hemmings only nodded in reply, but her mouth twitched, and for a moment I actually didn't quite loathe her.

Dear God, I was going soft.

"You're damned lucky, Bernard," she said abruptly, and I could see that she meant it. "Damned lucky. Be nice to her, for God's sake."

So saying, Katherine Hemmings took her leave, and closed the door behind her.

-8888—

I saw her the next day in a rather unexpected place.

I'd been dragging myself to the same, nondescript coffee shop wherein I always bought myself sustenance, when I spotted, at a table, a tumbled reddish head, lying on a pair of arms and looking, truth be told, somewhat pathetic.

For a moment, I was absurdly, unreasonably, infuriatingly glad to see her; sucking in a deep breath, I blinked at her for a moment, wondering if I wasn't simply mistaken, and there was another female at that table, with that auburn hair I'd grown accustomed to seeing every day, and the familiar lines of the body…

"Sh-Sharp?"

Ignoring my coffee, much to the bewilderment of the habit-driven coffeegirl, I approached her, and, jerkily, touched a hand briefly to her shoulder.

She didn't move.

"Sharp."

When still she remained motionless, her head buried in her arms, I was, for half of a second, struck with a horrible, nameless fear which strangled the breath in my throat and made me grip her arm quite hard.

"Sharp."

And then she stirred, and I at once felt stupid, and quickly released her, watching as her head slowly lifted from her arm and she blinked up at me.

"Bernard?"

"In the flesh."

She sat up now, and slowly her eyes darkened, and she was staring at me with a curious, sad, almost regretful expression in them, one which I wasn't sure I altogether liked.

"I-I guess you're wondering why I haven't been to see you in a while," she murmured, eyes on the table.

"Not really," I said—though I was.

"Well, I'm telling you anyway. Might as well let you know. Bernard, you—"

Sharp took a deep breath, and I watched as she said, shakily, yet with the air of one determined to say something:

"You asked me, before, whether—whether I had thought about—about—_sex_. And I have—oftener than I'd like to admit. But I've only thought of it with you."

There was a pause, as she collected her thoughts and I collected mine. God—this had not been how I'd imagined the conversation going.

Yet, nevertheless, something in me was—somewhat thrilled…she'd imagined _that_ with me…and only me…

"And I guess," she continued, still staring at her hands, "that I thought that the same applied with your—imaginings. But you told me—before—that you—that you imagined it with—different people. A few, different people. And so I was a little—upset; I was angry at myself now, and now there were so many insecurities I was prey to… And so now I'm—confused. I don't want to force you into anything. I-I dunno…I just want to know…is it just me? D-do you really love me? Is this just—well, were you serious, when you told me you did?"

Unable to reply, stunned for the second time within the past two days, I stared at her, beyond words.

The lie—the absurd falsehood I'd told the other day—she had believed it. And, consequently, the chit now thought me to be some sort of sex-driven hound who thought up numerous tawdry scenes with multiple women.

She also seemed to think I'd been somewhat insincere the entire time, and that the mortifying statement she'd dragged out of me was said rather lightly.

And all because I hadn't wanted to admit to her that she'd been the only one.

The situation seemed a simple one to remedy, if extraordinarily humiliating—yet I couldn't seem to say anything. The deep-rooted instinct within me to, at all costs, keep any emotion under check stifled my words, and I found myself just looking at her mutely, wondering how to explain…

But, typical Sharp, she jumped to conclusions.

"Okay," she said quietly, and turned away, eyes already turning damp. "See you later, Bernard."

And then the stupid, frustrating, unbelievable girl walked out of the door, and left me there, blankly shocked, sinking into a chair and putting my head in my hands.

And the worst part was it wasn't even the chit's fault.


	24. The Plus Side of Utter Humiliation

_AN: Hallo! Thanks to any and everybody who reviewed; they were all wonderful, and of course feedback is VASTLY appreciated. Also, to those-*cough* Vast Difference ;)-who have been requesting a certain-hem-scene, of sorts, I bring good news: It's not in this chapter, but it's coming very soon. Consider Bernard's mind blown. Er, alright, I think that's it, I'll shut up now and let you enjoy. Thanks!_

That evening, I went home and just sat on my bed, thinking.

As hard as I had fought against it, as much as I hated to admit it, and as infuriating as she was, there was a—slight—possibility that I—loved her. She was, if nothing else, the most astounding, frustrating, volatile minx I'd ever had the misfortune to meet…and something in me wanted to go back and tell her so. Yet, there was another part of me, the part that had helped me to survive all these long, dreary years, that absolutely forbade it.

_If you go back, you'll acknowledge you __**need**__ the stupid chit. You don't. Let her draw her own conclusions._

This was true; I had no true need of the girl, and if I went back to—I grit my teeth—_apologize_ that would only make her think I did…and then the last vestiges of my dignity would truly be gone.

Perhaps I should simply let her go. There would be others; people like Sharp didn't go through life long without somebody to shower their absurd affections onto. One of my brainless colleagues, no doubt, would take her off of my hands gladly…and I could return to the monotonous, yet eminently safer pattern I'd fallen into before her tumultuous insertion into my life.

It would be what I had wanted the entire time.

Yet, strangely enough, I wasn't grateful for this spectacular opportunity; somehow, I found myself dislking the thought of Sharp with someone else, Sharp teasing and laughing with some average Joe who'd stare at her with that sheep-like adoration I'd always despised, not really keeping up with her brisk mental processes but thinking her a marvel nonetheless. Perhaps that was how it should be; perhaps she needed a—I shuddered—_sweetheart_.

It was absurd that I should abhor the idea so; I'd thought I would be glad of the chance to be rid of her.

After all, it was only Sharp.

-88888—

That day at work I ran into, next to Sharp, the most bothersome person in the world—her niece. Immediately she recognized me, do what I would to hide behind a book and hope she'd run off.

"Hello, Uncle Bernard."

I let out a long sigh, and slowly set down the book. Life seemed to be getting worse and worse.

"I'm not your uncle, thank God."

"But Aunt Gwen wants you to be," she said, quite gravely. "Aunt Gwen likes you a whole lot, you know."

"I think she got over that," I snorted, even as inside something twanged painfully. It was…unpleasant to think that Sharp no longer had that ridiculous liking for me. Cocking her head, the niece replied:

"What do you mean? Did you and Aunt Gwen have an unfortunate disagreement?" pronouncing the rather long phrase very carefully. Shrugging, I said, without any particular interest or expression:

"You could call it that."

"Well, you should apologize," she told me, as if the whole thing were quite simple. "Mum always says to apologize when you've had an arg'ment."

"That would imply it was worth the effort," I told her drily, resuming my place in my book. The young minx in the make frowned.

"Of course it's worth the effort, don't you love Aunt Gwen?" she said solemnly. "She told Mum that you told her you did."

I burned deep rose; had the chit been spilling the sordid details of our "relationship" to her relations?

"Your Aunt Gwen talks too much."

"She says you don't talk much at all," the girl countered, still very calmly. "And do you love Aunt Gwen? You weren't lying to her, were you?"

Well, now the little chit had me in a bit of a tight corner.

"I don't see how any of this is your business," I said coolly, hoping this would silence her.

I hoped in vain.

"Mr. Bernard, Aunt Gwen is my favorite aunt. I want to know if you really love her."

I sighed, and put my head in both hands, with a sinking feeling I was losing desperately…and loving it.

"Fine. Since I can't get rid of you—I'm not—completely indifferent to your aunt."

For the first time since I'd known her, the little thing smiled—at me. It was rather a disconcerting sensation.

"I knew it! I knew you loved her! So will you marry her _now_, Mr. Bernard?"

Oh, for God's sake. The way females jumped from slight—liking to matrimony was truly alarming.

"I don't think your aunt would be able to survive that," I said, disgusted with myself for almost liking the idea.

"I think she could," replied the niece, serious once more. "I told you: Aunt Gwen really likes you. And I've never seen her look like she looks when she talks about you."

Curious in spite of myself, despite my strict policies on dealing with children, I queried:

"How does she look?"

The niece was silent for a moment, evidently trying to think of a way to sum up her aunt's expression. At last, she said:

"Well—she looks…soft, I guess. She sort of smiles, and her eyes get really big, and she only does it when she thinks I'm not looking. When she thinks I am, she just laughs about it."

It took me a moment to really comprehend that; so…Sharp looked…soft when she spoke of me. It was, for her, rather an uncommon expression; often Gwendolyn was teasing, or angry, or simply amused...but I had rarely seen her as simply soft.

And what was stranger still: _I _ was the one who inspired this emotion.

Hm.

It was a curious revelation, I had to admit; deciding not to say as much to the abominably nosy niece, I inclined my head briefly and tried to return, once more to my work.

"Mr. Bernard?" she said again, timidly now.

"What?"

"Please apologize to Aunt Gwen—I'm sure she's sorry, too."

"I've no doubt of it," I deadpanned, even as inside I felt that—perhaps apologizing wouldn't be—_so_ degrading, after all. And it would be—_nice_—to speak to Sharp again; I had a feeling this time she would not break the silence.

And, after a week had gone by and I was still alone every day at work, I found, to my half-hearted satisfaction, that I was right.

-88888—

One week and one day after the uncannily Sharp-like Marianne came to visit, I cracked at last. That day I came to the thoroughly humiliating decision that, try as I might to deny it, I needed Gwendolyn Sharp. Volatile, annoying, frustrating, often flat-out ridiculous thing that she was, I had, in a sense, grown accustomed to her presence, and, now that she was gone, I felt her absence. And so, I, Bernard Grahame, would do the unthinkable: I would actually offer an apology, in all sincerity, to another individual.

I had really fallen low.

Accordingly, that very day, right after I was let out of the museum, I drove to the out-of-the-way little bookshop in which she worked, and, sighing as I considered what I was about to do, looked around for her. I spotted her almost immediately; there she was, hair twisted into a thing at the back of her neck and eyes abstracted and unnaturally solemn as she directed a gawky-looking individual toward the "Sexuality" section.

Oh, God.

Steeling myself, I followed her, assaulted by just a slight pang when I saw her try and smile at a customer…she'd taken this whole thing rather hard, it seemed.

"Gw-Gwendolyn."

She stiffened, and slowly turned about, her face hard and stiff and cool as she faced me.

"What do you want?"

Clearly she was not inclined to simplify my task.

"Sharp, look—I-I'm sorry."

The words came out more easily than I'd thought they would; Gwendolyn, for her part, was startled.

"Y-you are?"

I sighed.

"Yes," I murmured, unable to quite grasp that I was really saying, really doing this. "I'm sorry I—I'm sorry I misled you. What I told you—about the different people—it wasn't true. I was simply trying to—well, it wasn't true."

Incredulity and a certain wild, ecstatic relief was struggling in Sharp's eyes; it was, I mused, a credit to her histrionic powers that she was able to say, in such a cold, stern tone:

"And?"

And now I was to take the final plunge; taking a deep breath, I said, quite honestly:

"And I-I really do—I really do love you, Gwendolyn. You ought to know that by now."

She was quite mollified by now; smiling hugely, she flung herself at me, wrapping her arms fiercely around me and burying her face in my turtleneck.

"One day, when I'm not so happy, I'm going to kill you, Bernard," she said, smiling into my chest. "That was absolute hell."

"I'm trembling," I replied, but even the sarcasm seemed—well—happier now. I was actually smiling as I said it.

A long silence, and then she said, softly:

"This is the shirt I gave you—isn't it?"

As it happened, it was; the maddening scent had worn out, but I was still quite unable to bring myself to toss the damn thing.

"It is."

"You kept it?"

I shrugged, still keeping her close.

"I needed another shirt."

She laughed, and tilted her head so that her cheek was lying against my heart, arms tightening around me. Looking down at her, I gently, before I knew what I was doing, swiped her cheek with my thumb, just to feel its softness.

Her eyes flicked up to mine, and I immediately blushed, and said, trying to sound indifferent:

"You had something on your face."

The little chit only laughed again, clearly not believing me in the least, and, a little flushed, brushed my own cheek with the tips of her fingers.

"So did you."


	25. The Glorious Denouement

_AN: Hallo! This is dedicated to everyone-Vast Difference in particular, whom I know has been waiting very eagerly for it. ;) Enjoy! There may be a little bitty epilogue or something after this, but, for all intents and purposes, the story is just about done. Hope you liked, and THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU EVERY SINGLE PERSON WHO REVIEWED OR ALERTED! I really hope you enjoy!_

"Bernard, what do you like best about a woman?"

Gwendolyn Sharp smiled as she settled herself on my lap, taking the biography of Megamind from my hands and placing it on the table beside me.

It was a Sunday, my one day of rest, and she had come to "keep me company", she'd said; I found myself almost enjoying the prospect of it.

"Mmmmf…hair," I mumbled, rather dreamily, seeing as a good quantity of hers was very, very close to my face, and sending that lovely, creamy scent straight to my brain.

Gwendolyn's smile widened.

"Really? So you're not a breasts or legs type of person?"

Trying hard to recover my faculties, I flushed and said, as coolly as I could:

"I never thought about it."

"Sure you have," she said, and wriggled around so that she was looking up at me, arms slipping around my neck. "Everyone has."

"Everyone but me."

She raised an eyebrow, but, thankfully, didn't pursue the subject; I did not care to admit that I actually did have rather a preference…truth be told, I had found my musings lingering, every so often, on the curious, heedlessly graceful movement of her legs…

"You know, it's funny," she said, in one of her wild changes of subject. "I've never asked-how old are you?"

Wondering why on earth she'd want to know, I mumbled:

"Thirty. Why?"

"No particular reason. I'm 23, and I just wanted to see how much older you were. Seven years," contemplatively. "It's a nice age gap."

I said nothing, of course...but, deep down, I couldn't help but agree with her.

It was another 10 minutes before she spoke again-and when she did, it was...unexpected.

"Bernard," said Gwendolyn rather suddenly, appearing to jolt from deep thought, "you know what would be a lot of fun?"

"I can't imagine."

She smirked, that curious, wicked look in her eyes which did uncomfortable things to my respirations…

"Guess."

Immediately I felt my body warm alarmingly from the neck upwards, and my throat was abruptly very dry as I struggle to say something—anything…

Seeing my discomfort, she laughed and said, reassuringly:

"I'm just kidding, Bernard. I didn't mean we should—er—have a wild night right this moment."

Every single shred of reserve fled me; head spinning at the mere _thought_ of said wild night, I mumbled, without thinking:

"Later tonight then?"

Her eyes widened, and for a moment she blanched, looking at me as if not quite sure she'd heard me correctly. I didn't blame her; I wasn't quite sure I'd heard me correctly either.

Then, slowly, the smile returned, and she shook her head, eyes dancing at the unmistakable disappointment that crept its way, unbidden, onto my face…

I wasn't sure what was wrong with me, but it seemed to be getting worse.

"No, not yet, Bernard," she said, though I could see the minx was enormously pleased. "Wait for it, eh? Anticipation and all that."

Nodding, I swallowed and looked anywhere but at her, trying to collect my roving thoughts…

She, meanwhile, was looking contemplative. Shaking herself at last, she said, lightly:

"Bernard?"

"What?"

Flashing a grin, she told me:

"I can't wait."

-88888—

_One year later_

I was reading on the bed when Gwendolyn, no longer Sharp, came in.

"Bernard?"

I didn't look up; the study of the failings of Woodrow Wilson was quite engrossing.

"Mm?"

She came quietly over to the side of the bed, and said quietly, bending so that her hair tickled my nose:

"I'm going to take a shower, alright?"

"Certainly."

"I won't be long," she said, and then, coming even closer, she whispered:

"Be ready."

And then she left—and suddenly it was exceedingly hard to concentrate on my book.

She came out damp from the shower, a towel wrapped around her and a little smirk on her face as she caught wind of my expression. I, for my part, was still lying on the bed as if nothing had happened, doing my best to read and comprehend—and failing utterly.

"Hallo, Bernard."

I swallowed, and my voice sounded horribly shaky…

"H-hello, Sharp."

"Not my name anymore," she said lightly, and sat on the side of the bed, very close to me. I flushed, and struggled to keep that traitorous little grin off of my face.

"Right."

Her hand rested lightly on my back, and she began to gently stroke it, while even the simple gesture made me stiffen, and grip the poor book with white knuckles...

"Relax, Bernard," she said softly, sounding somewhat nervous herself. I looked up at her, clad in only a towel…how on earth did she expect me to relax?

"I-I'm fine," I murmured, lying through my teeth.

"I know," she told me, and stretched herself out on the bed so that her face was very near mine, and the towel was considerably looser…

"Whacha reading about?" she said easily, as if we were only back at the museum. I laid the book down, rather glad to be rid of it, and replied, as coolly and calmly as I could:

"President Woodrow Wilson."

"Oh." Her nose wrinkled. "I don't like him."

For some reason, this made me want to smile; trust Sharp to have an opinion on every executive.

"I don't either."

And, taking a deep breath, I did what I'd been wanting to do the whole time, and kissed her mouth, one hand going to the back of her head to steady us.

Sharp responded eagerly, and immediately both of her hands were in my hair, pulling me closer to her. Within a few moments she was lying on the bed, and I was on top of her, hands wandering freely to all the places I'd touched in my dreams…

The towel, being a nuisance, was removed, and soon her hands had slipped beneath my turtleneck, running up my back and then dipping around to caress my abdomen…

The fire which had been swiftly consuming me grew hotter, and I found a little noise escaping me, while Gwendolyn, just for a moment, pulled back.

She smiled at me—and, delirious and insanely aroused, I smiled back, blinking at her through my lopsided glasses and suddenly realizing, to the fullest degree, that Gwendolyn wasn't wearing—well—_anything_…

"Good God."

She blushed, and then grinned.

"Why, thank you, Bernard."

And, without another word, she slid my shirt off, and tossed it carelessly away, eyes going over me with—I squirmed—appreciation…

"God, Bernard," she said simply, and the next thing I knew she was pulling at my belt, yanking it through the loops and tossing it into the vastly insignificant regions of the room which did not constitute the bed.

I began to seriously consider the dangers of spontaneous combustion.

"Gwen," I breathed, for no reason at all other than that her fingers were doing strange and wonderful things to my entire body…

She pulled back again, and beamed, while I, dizzy and out of my mind, just marveled…

"Knew you'd get it eventually."

Once we were both fully denuded, she took off my glasses.

"I don't think you'll be needing these," she whispered, as accordingly they disappeared and I squinted at her, heart slamming against my chest.

"I-I shouldn't think so."

She laughed breathlessly, and brought my face down to kiss me again; my brain shut down entirely, and for several minutes I was conscious of only unthinking pleasure.

"I love you," the minx said, against my lips. I couldn't have replied if I'd tried; my mouth was entirely too preoccupied for such things as words.

"Mmm."

Interpreting this correctly, I felt her smile, and, instinctively, groped about for the lamp.

"No," she murmured, not bothering to pull away. "Leave—leave the light on."

I obliged, not at all inclined to disagree with the prospect of seeing her (albeit blurrily) sans clothes for the remainder of the night…

And then things started to happen, and my mind shut down for the rest of the evening.

-8888—

Afterward, we both lay there, and Gwendolyn was, for once, without words; I didn't blame her. There wasn't really anything to say. Lying her head against my heart, she murmured, at last:

"H-hey, there."

Still grinning like an idiot, I responded:

"Hello, Gwendolyn."

Curling herself close, she wrapped her arms around me and sighed; her hair, wild and loose, fell lightly onto my face, inundating me once more with that scent….

"Mmm…did you enjoy yourself?" she said lightly, looking up at me with a knowing smile on her face; I had, over the course of the night, made the answer to that abundantly clear.

"It was alright," I said, still grinning stupidly at the ceiling. The little thing—_my_ little thing, now—rolled her eyes, and kissed me beneath the jaw.

"Well, we have lots of time to practice."

My grin widened at the thought of all the…practice I would be getting with her…

Suddenly, she made as if to get up, and, instinctively, my arms tightened, not wanting to let her go…

"I'm just going to get some water," she assured me, but I heard the smile in her voice. "I'll be back soon, dearest."

"Don't call me that," I mumbled, even as, inside, I hoped she hurried; the sensation of being so…_close_ to her was so new, and so pleasurable, it seemed unfair that it should end so soon…

But she came back within a moment, just as she'd promised, and was soon pressed close to me, arms round my shoulders and head once more on my chest.

"Goodnight, Bernard," she murmured, sounding drowsy now. I stared at her for a moment, looking her over, and then, without thinking, or second-guessing, I leant in and kissed her quickly on the temple.

"Goodnight, Gwendolyn."

And, as she dropped off and curled closer to me, I said, quietly:

"I love you."

-8888—

We were wakened by a knock on the hotel door.

"Excuse me?"

Beside me, Gwendolyn stirred, eyes slowly opening as she took in her surroundings. Still considerably addled by the happenings of last night, I only sighed and called:

"What?"

The door opened—and in walked Elmer, baseball cap firmly intact and hands in his ratty overall pockets. He did rather a double take when he saw me, lying there with her under the blankets, and I with difficulty kept back a smirk.

"I didn't know you cleaned hotels, Elmer."

Nodding deferentially, he stammered:

"Y-yes, Mr. Bernard, sir. Anything to keep food on the table, sir." And then, evidently deciding it would be rude to utterly ignore Gwendolyn's presence, he nodded again and murmured:

"Hello, Miss Gwendolyn, miss."

She grinned, and waved at him, making sure to keep the bedclothes high enough so as to preserve a semblance of modesty.

"Hallo, Elmer. Good to see you again."

"Likewise, Miss Gwendolyn, miss. I-I'll just go then, Mr. Bernard, sir. I'll come back later, sir."

Nodding, I watched as he turned and scurried out—just as he reached the door, however, he turned and said, hesitantly:

"Mr. Bernard, sir?"

"What?"

With a slight, significant little smile, he said:

"I'm glad you took my advice, sir."

And, with another little nod, he left—and, as the door closed behind him, so was I.


	26. Epilogue

_AN: Hallo, allo! As promised, here's the epilogue, and, as promised, it's little bitty. Just a little fluffy something to tack onto the end. Sigh...I can't believe this fic is over...I've enjoyed it so. Well, like I said before, you may see a one shot poppping up here and there when I can't get rid of them...sorry about that. Anyway, hope you like, and many, many, many thanks for reading!_

EPILOGUE

_Two weeks later_

"Bernard, what was the name of that wall the French set up to keep the Germans out during World War II?"

I didn't pause in my dressing as I replied:

"Maginot line."

Gwendolyn, sprawled on the bed with a crossword puzzle in hand—another one of her hobbies, I'd found—grinned.

"Thanks, Bernard. You're awfully useful as a reference book."

Straightening my blazer, I said simply:

"I should be."

"It's quite handy," she said, getting up and putting her chin on my shoulder, arms slipping around my waist. I couldn't help but sigh—just a little—at the contact. "Oh, and by the way, Fels wants to come and see us some time this evening; I think she's bringing Marianne with her."

"Dandy," I mumbled, inwardly hoping I was not doomed to another highly mortifying investigation at the hands of her strange niece. Gwen hugged me tighter, and kissed me lightly just beneath the ear.

"I think you like her after all, Bernard. She loves you—and she's quite the little Nostradamus, isn't she? You became Uncle Bernard after all."

"She's not so bad," I conceded, shrugging and struggling to keep back a little smile.

"Well, don't work too late, hm? Besides, if we have a little time afterwards—"

And she leant in and whispered something in my ear which elicited a wild, crimson blush all the way up my neck…

Before I could manage any sort of reply, however, coherent or otherwise, there was a knock at the door, and Elmer's voice called, loudly and clearly:

"MR. BERNARD, SIR? I. AM. COMING. IN. NOW. SIR."

Gwendolyn buried her laughter into my shirt, while I, still considerably flushed, rolled my eyes and replied:

"Come in."

Head down in case, despite his precautions, he should catch us in a compromising position, Elmer shuffled into the room and began his work, nodding quickly to the two of us. I struggled to keep back a smirk.

"I'm going to work, Elmer. You can look at us now."

Blushing crimson at being caught, the cleaning man nodded again, and wrenched his eyes to my face, wretchedly uncomfortable.

"Yes, Mr. Bernard, sir. Thank you, sir."

"See, Elmer, it's all PG," said Gwendolyn lightly; it was one of her absurd missions in life to draw the little man out of his shell. She hadn't listened when I'd told her not to bother.

_"Nonsense, Bernard! The poor man's absolutely desperate for a little kindness—you've scared the absolute shit out of him, you know."_

_I'd turned to face her with a sarcastic smirk, cocking an eyebrow._

_"I tend to do that."_

_She'd laughed._

_"Yes, you do, you do indeed—but you don't scare me, and you never will."_

_Giving her up as a lost cause, I had shrugged and said:_

_"Did I ever scare you?"_

_"A little," she'd allowed, with a grin. "At the beginning, definitely. But once I found out you had a heart, your terror factor plummeted dramatically."_

_"I told you," I deadpanned, eyes on my book. "I don't have one. You've been deluding yourself, Gwendolyn."_

_But she hadn't been—and we both knew it._

_"Well, in any case," resumed Sharp, that familiar glow coming into her eyes. Oh, God; she'd found another "project". "I think Elmer just needs a little friendly contact. And he needs to stop calling me 'Miss Gwendolyn, miss'. It's servile to the point of being creepy."_

_I snorted; it was, for me, hard to imagine the absurd man without his deferential airs and Heep-like tendencies. _

_"Good luck."_

_"You laugh," she said, serenely, "but you'll see; I'll get through in the end. I did it with you, didn't I?"_

_And I had to admit there was no arguing with her logic in that area._

I, knowing better than to try and argue the point with her again, shrugged, washing my hands of the whole ridiculous affair, and left poor Elmer to the tender, exceedingly cordial mercies of my wife.

And, as I got into my car and made, for the millionth time, towards the museum, I was startled by the thought that my existence was—perhaps—not so miserable as I'd initially thought it.

Perhaps it was unlucky and naively delusional to say so, but, at the moment, I was inclined to think I rather enjoyed it.


End file.
